


Unhitched

by JoanieLSpeak



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 1970s, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, And Now For Something Completely Different, Cannibalism, Child Death, Dark, Dark Will Graham, Death, Depression, Fanart, Fresh Meat Friday, Hannibal is Rough, Heavy Angst, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, Murder Husbands, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, POV Will Graham, Psychodrama, Salty Will Graham, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Suicide, Truckers, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 21:26:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 166,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11745507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoanieLSpeak/pseuds/JoanieLSpeak
Summary: A greasy-spoon outside Detroit, 1974. A recently-divorced long-hauler with a sharp tongue and a questionable past sits with his equally dubious bacon and eggs. It's flavorless, unpleasant, and cold, just like him. He's about to give in – give out – give up on life when he meets a stranger with a bizarre accent, a vexing palate, and a messed up philosophy about life and death.This unreliable narrator wasn't looking for a friend or trouble when he started hauling steel out of the Motor City, but as fate would have it, he finds both.





	1. Don't Suffer with Cold Eggs

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warning: If you are concerned about specific triggers or squicks, feel free to contact me in a comment or via [Tumblr](https://joanielspeak.tumblr.com/) and I'd be happy to answer questions. 
> 
> Any and all comments are welcomed and cherished and I do read and reply to them all, but it might take me awhile.

For ten agonizing years, I faithfully supported my ex-wife through all her bohemian bullshit. She flopped between causes like a dying fish, and I stood by her like a dutiful husband every step of the way. She, however, treated me like I was just another cog in the wheel of injustices lashing against her and her fellow sisters. I was the problem. I was the reason she was unhappy. I was what was wrong with the world, and she made sure I knew it.

Because of this "inequity" between her and I, I ended up paying good money so she could make her mock pilgrimages to Washington to join the godforsaken marches. I had a penance to pay, and she was going to claim every damn dime she could carry.

This was all fine and good for a while – it's only money and I didn't care – but suddenly _she_ started to care and turned on me. I wasn't _sweet_ enough for her taste anymore, or _friendly_ enough to mingle with her obnoxious friends. I did what she asked of me, and in the end, she ditched me for a talentless hack – a street performer who sang perpetually off-key and was missing both his thumbs.

Before I was replaced by the organ grinding monkey, I had a decent, respectable job as a sculptor of young minds – something normal women would have appreciated. Normal women would have been happy to have a house over their head and a refrigerator full of food. I wasn't cruel or demanding. I was willing to do whatever she wanted just to keep her happy, but what she wanted turned out to be anything and anybody that wasn’t me.

When she'd had her fill, she sent her drugged-up brother to give me the divorce papers, and he laughed at me. I poured him a cup of coffee, sat him down at my goddamn kitchen table, and that cocksucker cackled in my face. He knew his sister was a whore, and he knew I was a pushover – hell, he’d been telling me that for years. But I had no reason to listen to that asshole. He was a jobless freeloader and always had been.

Before the wedding, the three of us had gone camping together in the mountains of northern Virginia. Her brother dicked around the whole time, setting shit on fire and getting high. There was nothing that asshole wouldn’t do if you dared him to do it. His sister bet him half a six-pack that he couldn’t drink the rest of a bottle of lighter fluid and he did it without question, even though he’s the jackass who brought all the beer.

At dawn each morning of the trip, I would pick up all their empties and charred trash and bag it up, only to have the garbage gutted each night and spread across the dirt by raccoons. It was an endless cycle of death and destruction, and I was the idiot tidying up.

By day three, I’d lost my girlfriend. She’d run off with a bunch of hippies to do God knows what in the woods. I found her on day six, just before we were supposed to leave. She had leaves in her hair and was riding some guy in a tent.

For some sadistic reason, I married that woman the following June. Her brother was my best man and laughed behind me at the altar. Just before he gave me her hand, her alcoholic dad called me the stupidest dumbass he’d ever met and that probably should have tipped me off. I may not have been the best judge of character at that time in my life.

As far as I’m concerned, that can all stay in the past where it belongs. Right now, I’m just outside Detroit, about to get on I-94. The greasy air of the shitty diner I’m sitting in is already permeating my clothes, and the thought of walking out of this place smelling like a dirty fish fryer has me regretting at least eight of the last ten years of my life.

I honestly don’t know how people live like this. I was a goddamn fool to think I could just walk out on my life and never think about it again. It had been a toxic decade that had left me weak and belittled and buying a semi - truck from a paranoid schizophrenic in Ellicott City. The silver lining? That crazy bastard kept the cab immaculate.

If I’m being honest with myself, which rarely happens anymore, it wasn’t _my_ life I was abandoning out here. I didn’t want the filthy house. I didn’t want her goddamn cats shitting all over my laundry. I didn’t want to bicker with my illiterate students anymore either.

I needed to hit the road and get as far from Baltimore as I could, but when reality set in, I realized this was the most asinine thing I had ever done, aside from marrying a blonde with a taste for other men’s cocks. I didn’t know how to drive or maintain a truck, though I learned eventually. But what I did discover was how isolating the open road is. My days are spent blissfully alone in the spotless cab of my truck which is far more satisfying to me than being in some asshole’s backyard having a summer barbecue with all our perverted neighbors. I had no idea how much I needed to be alone, and now I can finally breathe again.

A plate is dropped to the table throwing my toast into the booth seat across from me. I didn’t want it anyway, so I don’t bother to grab it, but the rest of my breakfast is unacceptable.

“Excuse me, ma’am!”

The waitress is walking away, but she stops, her shoulders tensing and slowly turns to me.

“These eggs,” I say, pointing at my plate, “are they supposed to be ice cold?”

Her face reflects every minute of the last twelve hours of her overextended shift. “Yes, sir. Ice cold – says so on the menu.”

I know how grueling her job must be. You can see it in her bloodshot eyes and the way she keeps shifting on her aching feet.

“Okay then ... Uh, thank you.” I straighten my glasses and scan the restaurant for any potential eavesdroppers. I’ve been trying to change myself lately, be more dominant and forceful with my opinions since that’s what society loves so much. I’ve been written off my whole life by people that claim that I’m a weak, useless man. I get overwhelmed and the world sees this as my greatest defect – I show emotions other than rage, so I must not have any balls.

I remember crying at my wedding and the whole damn room scoffed at me. They called me a woman because I couldn’t contain my joy, but in hindsight, I wasn’t crying for joy. I was grieving the loss of my freedom because only _I_ could confuse happiness with profound agony.

When I’m satisfied that my exchange with the waitress has gone unnoticed, I cut up the rubbery eggs slipping around my plate. I hate cold eggs. It was the only request I ever made of my wife: please only serve hot eggs. She never served any eggs, cold or otherwise, because I did all the cooking – yet another red flag that went ignored.

The waitress wanders away and now leans behind the counter, rolling her eyes and whispering to other diners about the crazy man in her section. Their stares are nothing new to me. I was always the milquetoast stumbling down the sidewalk, loaded with all my wife’s shit and apologizing for being run into. I was the deadbeat haggling with cashiers to try to afford whatever garbage she wanted that day. I was the idiot sending back my wife’s food because it wasn’t exactly what she ordered. She was a woman and women had been oppressed for centuries. I was a man and I owed her my servitude as restitution.

The problem was that she was right. I understand systemic oppression. The world had spent the last fifty years fighting amongst itself about these things. Everything was changing and we all saw it, but I resented my wife for it. Maybe I was just too opposed to change.

She resented me because she thought she married an actual man and certain expectations had been placed on me. I was supposed to fuck her. I was supposed to make her feel good and satisfied. I was supposed to give her a couple kids, but God the pervert had other ideas. He must be one sadistic bastard, because every time I tried to get it up, he was right there, pointing at my junk and laughing, just like my wife. She took every opportunity to undermine me and for the last five years we were married, she only ever called me Softie. She told our friends it was because I was like a big, cuddly teddy bear, but she was a shitty liar, so it only took one drunken block party for our whole neighborhood to figure it out.

The irony is that she’s the one who wanted the divorce. I just wanted her home before nine and to stop flirting with other men in front of me. I was content with our loveless, sexless marriage because being married meant my neighbors assumed I was normal and everyone would stop questioning me.

Of course, none of this changes the fact that I still hate cold eggs.

 _“Ice cold,”_ I mumble to myself because who else am I going to talk to? _“Supposed to be ice cold. Menu says so.”_ I can tell that my voice is elevating as I speak, but I’m not going to stop it.

Sometimes a cold egg is just a cold egg – you eat it and move on. But sometimes a cold egg is the embodiment of all that has gone wrong in your worthless, insignificant life.

“You should have just saved yourself the trouble and given me an egg right out of the goddamn fridge!” Several other diners look up from their oatmeal and pancakes to gawk at me. I’m a man at the end of my rope, and they all want to see how far I’m going to drop. “What are you looking at?!” I snap at the room. They all need to mind their own damn business.

Women are whispering and glancing away and the men are ignoring my outburst – save one. He’s staring at me like I’m a sideshow at a circus. I’m _The Amazing Red-Faced Man._ Watch me burst into tears as I talk to a Vietnam vet and then start screaming in a restaurant over a fried egg! I pay to see that show every goddamn day. Maybe I should start selling tickets.

I’m not normally confrontational, but this jackass is flat-out staring at me. He’s at the far end of the counter, bearded and gruff, looking like a Hell’s Angel minus the leather jacket. He’s sucking on his cigarette like he just got laid and boring holes through my skull with his black eyes. I’ve always found eye contact to be too invasive to maintain, so my mind buckles under the pressure and I go back to my rubbery breakfast.

Why cold eggs? Maybe this is the magical question that needs answering to make all my life’s problems go away. I can’t answer it, of course, so my fork clatters to the table and I push away the plate because I literally cannot eat this shit. I don’t have time to reorder, either. I should have flown out of this stop twenty minutes ago, but I haven’t built up my tolerance to the endless road noise yet. I still feel like my head’s about to implode.

Without any warning, that gruff face is suddenly staring at me again, only this time it’s plunked down across from me in my booth. The man is holding up my toast in the same hand that cradles his post-sex smoke. It looks like a tiny gingerbread house with a puffing chimney.

“Drop this?” he asks in a strange, garbled voice.

I don’t respond. I’ve never liked invasions of my privacy, but I can't expect to go unnoticed when I start yelling about eggs in a restaurant. He tosses the toast and it lands with a hard tap on my plate. If this asshole wants something, I don't know what the hell it would be.

He pulls a toothpick out of nowhere and slowly works it between his teeth as he cocks his head, still staring like a creep.

“Can I help you?” I finally ask. I don’t feel like I’m exuding hospitality at the moment.

He points at me with his cigarette. “You’re a rude little man,” he mumbles.

I used to teach English to brats in high school. Using clear and proper words was something I was obsessed with. I worked hard to get rid of my own Louisiana accent and try to enunciate clearly. This man, however, speaks like he has a mouth full of marbles. I want to reach across the table and pry it open to find out. Does he have a wad of peanut butter in there or is he just so lazy that he can’t be bothered to move his goddamn tongue?

“Is it not also rude to be served shitty eggs?” I say. “I’m paying money for hot eggs, just like everyone else.”

He smiles at me, and I realize how high his cheekbones are. Between that and his pronounced canines, he looks like Dracula – if Dracula was a long-hauler.

“No one else here has hot eggs and you’re the only one bitching about it,” he says, chewing the toothpick. “I wonder why.”

I realize now it’s not a laziness to his speech, it’s an accent. I’ve never heard it before. It’s not really guttural; in fact, it sounds weirdly soft and he doesn’t pronounce his Rs.

I’m still reeling from the invasion of my booth by this foreigner when he pipes up again, “You’re twitchy,” he snickers.

“And you’re dirty,” I retort. Why I’m resorting to name calling, I don’t know. I lean back and cross my arms. This is ridiculous. “And who’s rude now? You just called me twitchy.”

He’s still smiling at me and I feel like I’m under a microscope. His eyes comb through my messy brown hair and mustache. They circle my glasses and occasionally dart between my pupils.

“Where’re you headed?” he asks.

I’m not on the road to make friends. I’m not here to meet new and “exciting” people. I’m here to get away from all that shit. Society can go fuck itself raw. I ignore him and take a sip of my coffee, only to discover it now matches my eggs in temperature. This man has robbed me of the only thing I had been enjoying.

“I’m not discussing anything with you.”

“Why not?” he wonders. He is still quiet and placid. His eyes have softened, like my disinterest in talking to him actually hurt his poor little feelings.

“Do I seem interested in talking to anyone?”

“Not particularly. ”

I throw myself back in my seat with a scoff. “Then why are you continuing to bother me?”

“I’m curious,” he says, flicking his chewed toothpick on the table. Between drags off his smoke, he clicks his tongue, which makes me feel like I’m under some sort of time constraint and he’s counting down the seconds until I lose.

He’s clearly not going to finish his thought, so I ask, “Curious about what? About me?” I don’t like where this conversation is going. “Buddy, I’m not into whatever freaky shit you’re looking for, so you can just move along.”

The man chuckles at my assumption which just pisses me off even more. “I think you’re exactly what I’m looking for,” he says with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

If I was a more violent man, I think I’d deck him. “Is that so?” I say. “And what the hell are you looking for?”

He leans over the table and drops his cigarette in my cold coffee like a rude son of a bitch as he laughs. “I’m looking for a man with nothing to lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reader and artist, [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com) surprised me one day with his idea of what my truckers look like. Thank you, Toni. I love it! <3
> 
> Art: [Unhitched](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/E9lJTGv3lDTbbge3xvblKE6P37yXFUYlDlGLZx-2O5EWSAkxyKZ8fcjdPSDAfCFJH_lq4DvBY7JSmg_WEmR_DiuQphh9L149_Yw07FMWKAyEMbAgdV0Q5d8lMgqhhH3PtIbyZl41Yk-oA6Lp6DzPS2JmGGgLZSEE4i3_bNyfNjXzYRCfBHa8Uivvsko5gsDaEDzER4jFV900Qa8nYf0pjuDHTApTH2J0g9GI2ohm2pUAYzRasaycOYFsm29_LF6-SS-XUESWSumGml5sOkcyHsiqughFaeq4-tuNw-Yz_b_C-VJTwBTlwo8K5DvPjK3i84Di9G7OKKcQokr7Aqg_10mLkpvOeQIXXKehFzcUWKtEEn25sII69vjdU8xzpNJ1-iq24HE2F63H8DDgg9ulQ9EjFkwzpFqFA0E5TG4MZLDv5iJ15_5UqoosJGSKog72sWP5qp244kaJdjKDXWbUjWCve8OXuD2hxkFtPtbr1ZWTG4DWFcpc5dxbK4o1K6LFgTfGibHdjHB5BUSt9tH28axye3QdZhGMZOZ58naHJ0WtPwYdbEFcRmUVWyWNu7a9bAxqzH_K5Cqj077Dw8KGCOsqCC9eBx61-sma5jL0FCg5IEaWWuaHntUcROBbynVuvTWO31foGGckFU1kCIr2csyy62vJ36cOQw=w876-h599-no) by [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com/post/166319581267/unhitched-ive-redone-this-about-sixteen-times)  
> Art: [Original Unhitched cover banner](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/1MeNnze5g9VVGUa-FrtNKTECw96OFtKYj4KZ42KdLf3U7KFhTjyhZ71f1lN8qkLSdcEeiusB7k5aKbPoV__sNmr59BiRhlNq9Dd4qihp8KXYDqABw4udiEx7tWoZgdRx0WyCZQp4Eec6esVnuaq9XaCKfDpr5uNnJabdIA1c8E3ejeCuPKjkrlYm6k8TtKSgu3du3VQNE9NzuuhAz2PR9gUk_KBRLl5cHsnfFSJ2pWFB3mQrBc-IVkBBLdcQUD-u0QvubMXGPX6fwITPfV79jzRtem9hndcaNwg1VOgFLkqAIfqptxaAi6Lour9E1o797qcsQlilxJ8hxY9L-erEB1DazydW-RXL1f73jlRimzcGl5b6X88kTfKjQ5BJQoBSrjTZ2YDWx6bbgAO-oKfDTNb9AioiW8sn7x7AJ3P8FMics9arK4MGLZ9dccOixwQ26P03X2qJBzgatGN56n_VLRxfwLBbufrGcOQxOCQsDzvbZ5-zqgEyuGQooAe9sL2I3UNgePZwIEbrYzATLHQGSppiB_9Vg64bc46J-PyYF64dzYySi-4t4AL0_Z6Izrhp9aLL0_yDzPv7gBL6_UGyOsewtinjdsptuHzzXDoWsZC2LjE3N9cxu8RcjRR6e9F38wSJBHc6gqfAQIx-1BlCkTP6dX4gQCoIHPub8vBaLX2NnOIrUuNCKPZkgQ=w800-h400-no) by joanielspeak


	2. Beneath my Dignity

The best and worst times to eat in a diner are during the socially designated meal hours. Between five and seven in the morning, diners are the much-loved destination for taking Grandma out for grits. Between eleven and noon, you get the business crowd looking to spend no more than fifteen minutes on a reuben before hightailing it back to the showroom floor. From four-thirty to six you get the travelers and truckers, bleary-eyed and ready to rest or load up on coffee and bennies for another stretch of road.

It’s busy, is what I’m saying, but nine times out of ten if you just keep your nose down, you can get in and out without much fuss. Sometimes, though, I can’t take the chaos. I can’t jump from the monotonous whirring of my cab into the clattering plates, flapping jaws, and hollering cooks of a truck stop diner. This means my only time to eat is before or after the rush, and then I end up having to get buddy buddy with the bored wait staff.

I drove all day and found myself just west of Des Moines when I finally stopped. It’s late, and all I want is a hot drink before I hit the hay. I hardly ever eat anymore since the weather is so damn hot, and I hate having to stop.

I sit down in the booth and look over the menu anyway. It’s all the same boring fare, so I settle for a cup of decaf which I down immediately and open my tattered copy of  _The Sirens of Titan._

“Where’re ya headed?” asks the waitress. She’s refilling my coffee cup and unnecessarily chipper for this late hour.

I don’t glance up from my novel. She’ll get the hint. “Denver.”

“Where ya coming from?”

I grit my teeth. This is how it always starts. “Detroit.”

She bends over to look out the window into the darkened lot and practically breasts the book out of my hands.

“Whatcha haulin’?“ she asks, squinting at my truck. It’s obscured by the shadows of the trees I pulled it up to, but a blind man could see that it’s covered in coils.

“Steel,” I say, leaning back to give her nosiness a wider berth.

“Coulda guessed that, comin' from Detroit.” She winks at me and I bristle. I’ll never understand women. “You want cream and sugar, hun?”

“No, please,” I say with a wave. “This is fine.”

“Piece of pie? Gotta fresh blueberry pie up there. Second shift at the tire factory doesn’t let out for another twenty minutes. You’d get the first slice.”

“I don’t want any pie, thank you.”

“Kitchen’s open all night long. Can I get ya a sandwich?”

“Can I get some peace? Is that a special today, or do I have to pay extra for it? I will if you make me. I just want to finish my book.”

She sneers at me and huffs away. I don’t know how to get people to leave me alone. They seem to be naturally drawn to fidgety men with no tact or control over the volume of their voice. I have crazy bastards telling me I have nothing to lose and chatty waitresses that go on and on about pie. I have two chapters left of my novel and I just want to finish my coffee and fall asleep in my cab.

For some reason, the common population thinks idle chit-chat is more important than silence. People have always been afraid of their own thoughts because thoughts tell you what you don’t want to hear. Flapping your gums is a great alternative. You can ignore your own internal suffering while drowning out the suffering of another. In a way, it’s somewhat benevolent to the ignorant masses.

I set down my empty cup and wait patiently for a refill, but my terseness with the waitress must have been overkill. She avoids my eyes and waving hand, so I finally give up. I’ve finished my book anyway, and even if it’s decaf, I don’t need any more coffee. It’s nearing one in the morning and tomorrow’s my last leg to Denver, so I leave a quarter next to my cup and head to my truck.

The air outside is thick and hot. July is a little unpredictable in Iowa. It feels like a storm’s rolling in and I welcome her with open arms. Hot, summer storms are good for both the cornfields out here and for people like me, who constantly yearn for the world to be muffled by the plunking of rain on a steel roof.

It’s my own damn fault I have to piss so badly. I need to stop drinking so much before I go to bed. Unwilling to be hassled by the staff of the diner again, I take a leak behind the dark side of my truck. For a few seconds, I get to enjoy the chirping of a thousand crickets as they down out all other distractions. The peace of these early hours of the morning is nice … until it’s suddenly not.

A couple cars roll across the gravel behind the truck, briefly bathing me in light before the engines cut out. It’s probably the tire factory’s second shift, here for their _fresh_ pie. Car doors slam and feet crunch across the stones, and I quickly tuck myself back in my pants.

A voice hollers from behind my trailer, “Whatcha doin’ back there?”

It’s a man. I’ve never heard him before, but it’s definitely a local Iowa drawl. I can’t see anything, though. My truck and the trees are obscuring my view and I'm surrounded by darkness otherwise.

“Just takin’ a leak,” I answer to the darkness. I hop up on the foot rail of my truck and look around, still seeing nothing, so I pull on the passenger door only to find the damn thing locked. Why do I have to be so paranoid? The keys are in the goddamn ignition and the passenger door is locked. This is my life in a nutshell.

“What’s yer rush to leave?” says the voice. “I’m still talkin’ to you.”

He’s moving closer, and then I finally see two men emerge from around my trailer. Their shapes are vaguely backlit by the dim light of the diner’s neon sign which continues to blink  _Bright & Early Kitchen_ despite the late night gloom I’m currently stuck within. One of the men is shaved bald, the other has a floppy mess of hair and they both look like they’re in white tee shirts – probably just shed their uniforms. They’re still approaching and I’ve got nowhere to go. My protected little outhouse, the secluded woods next to my truck, has now become an impromptu cage. I could shimmy under the trailer, but I don’t know what the hell these men want, and why be a chickenshit if I don’t have to be?

“I’m not rushing anywhere,” I say, stepping down from the foot rail. Maybe they just need directions, or their car broke down. I know that’s not the case though, and I slowly raise my hands. The bald guy has a gun.

You grow up in a world filled with people chomping at the bit to tell you who’s strong and who’s weak.

This boy gets into fights. Strong.

This boy likes to read books. Weak.

This boy plays contact sports. Strong.

This boy likes to write stories. Weak.

The anomalies to this caste system are tossed aside because they don’t fit. Outliers won’t be accepted or tolerated.

The world then tells you what women want and what society’s going to expect out of you. Women want strength. They want a firm hand and a loud voice. They want a hard cock. They want a cash flow and a white picket fence. They want a couple kids, and that was a sticking point with me. I could give a woman a house and her little white fence. But I could never give her a couple kids.

Society tells you to fight back when something comes at you. It’s your job as a man. There’s something about having balls that means you have to like the taste of knuckles, beer, and blood. I’ve never been in a proper fist fight. I’ve been punched, sure. But I don’t punch back. I know what it feels like, and it hurts. The only person I’ve ever attacked was a boy twice my size. I was thirteen and he was fifteen, and he kicked my neighbor’s dog so hard he broke its leg. I punched him in the side of the head, so he attacked me. He rubbed my face in the dog’s shit and I spent the rest of that summer locked in my room because I couldn’t face my neighbor’s empty yard. The bastard had tied up the dog and dropped it in a full drainage ditch to spite me. I cried for days because I loved that dog. I gave it a proper burial in the woods behind my house, only to find out a few days later that it had been dug up and eaten by wild animals. I cried again, and then I cried some more because I realized I shouldn’t have punched that kid. I was wrong to do that. He got enough of that shit from his dad.

Society says you have to stay strong even through the pain. You can’t cry if it hurts because you aren’t supposed to feel it, but I’ve always felt it. I feel the pain deep in my belly when I’m around those that are hurting. When I was eleven, a boy broke the glasses right on my face. They cracked, and the glass cut his hand and he cried. I was so worried about the cut and how bad he felt that I ran inside and got my dad’s whiskey. Cowboys poured booze over wounds, so I figured it should do something for him. The boy called me a spaz and then stole the whiskey. I got my dad’s belt when he got home that night, but I’m not really sure why. I couldn’t tell if he was more mad about the whiskey or my broken glasses. He liked to be drunk by six-thirty, so it was probably the whiskey.

Society tells you to take the beatings because it makes you a man. The aggression inflicted on you was more than likely your own fault anyway. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or you talked back when you should have stayed silent. Maybe you were rude. Weakness is rude, by the way, in case you didn’t know. Just being vulnerable is enough to get you targeted. Society can’t accept vulnerability, because as they say, ‘a chain is only as strong as its weakest link’. A weak man could cause the downfall of society, though I’m not really sure what weakening the weakest link is supposed to do. Seems counterproductive if you want to maintain a usable chain. These goddamn sayings are pointless.

And how can society accept a person who won't even try to retaliate? It can’t. If you don’t fight back, you’re just a coward. You’re a pussy or a faggot who doesn’t get justice unless you take it for yourself. A man always takes. Survivors take their life back. Victims live with the pity of others forever. Cowards are about as worthless as they come and never deserve justice. I was a coward all my life. I’ve been a victim to my friends and family. But I considered myself a survivor of my wife. She was a goddamn bitch.

I knew what these men wanted as soon as they asked what I was doing, so I pull out my wallet and throw it at their feet.

“Fifty bucks. Just take it,” I say.

I don’t want any trouble. I never want trouble, but trouble follows me like a plague of locusts. It hovers, patiently waiting to watch me dance around with a fly swatter, trying to kill them all before I’m overcome.

The hairy one without the gun squats down and flips through my wallet. I don’t know what he’s looking for. There’s no light out here to see by.

“You got a gun in the truck?” the other asks.

What am I supposed to do, lie? Of course I have a gun in my truck. It was the most practical wedding gift I’d received, though I was a terrible shot. I think my father-in-law was expecting me to use it on myself, and if I’m being honest, the thought had crossed my mind, though nothing ever came of it.

In any case, I had a really hard time pulling the trigger. Every time the opportunity arose, I’d be blinded by a white-hot heat and I’d start to shake. So why do I still carry it if I can’t shoot it? Because even unloaded it’s threatening. An unarmed tank is still imposing when you’re looking down its muzzle.

“No,” I say. “No gun.” A part of me is concerned that if I say yes, they’ll just dig through my truck and take it. But saying no might give them the confidence to do far worse things to me. I’m not sure why I risk it. I should have said yes.

The bald guy with the gun walks up to me and slams my chest against the truck so hard, my glasses clatter down the door and hit the gravel. He doesn’t need to be cruel. If he actually knew anything about me, he would have just asked for my damn keys. He could have taken the whole rig if he wanted. I stopped giving a rat’s ass a long time ago. All I've ever wanted were a couple of warm eggs and seclusion. The rest of my life is just pap.

The barrel is thrust against my cheek, and I can feel his body press into my back. All I can think about is how much of a favor he’d be doing me if he just pulled the damn trigger before he gets handsy. You get to a point where struggling to maintain your dignity ends up creating a greater risk to your survival than just giving in. How far underwater do you have to go before you give up on ever reaching the surface again? Best to just learn to breathe water.

By what scale are we supposed to measure our life’s worth, anyway? I bring nothing to the table. I never have. My wife hated me. My family abandoned me. My countrymen punish me. The greatest contribution I’ve ever given to my society was to refuse to foist my genes on the next generation, but in reality, it had nothing to do with my choice and everything to do with God’s messed up sense of humor.

Baldy doesn’t shoot me, but he does have mercy on me, and I have to appreciate that. You can’t find mercy anymore. People are too selfish. But not this man; he’s practically a humanitarian. Before he slides his hand down my jeans or messes with my rig, he grabs a fistful of hair and cracks my head against the truck door. Thankfully, he doesn’t just daze me, leaving me conscious enough to feel the burn of defilement. No, this sucker floors me, and I hit the ground cold and without protest, like the thirteen-year-old coward I always have been.


	3. Death's got Nothing on Monsters

For a minute, I think I’m dead and it’s sort of nice. You don’t feel pain when you’re dead, and everything is calm, like a foggy morning in the fall. As the cloud slowly lifts from my head, I realize something’s digging into my face and the pleasing but pungent stink of diesel burns my nose. Light floods my eyes just moments before the ringing fades, and I’m suddenly rolling over onto my back.

 _“Hey sin man, you tight?”_ says some girl, apparently gawking at my living corpse.

I shake my head, hoping to clear the pounding in my ears. “What the hell’d you just say?” I croak. If that's slang for something, I have no idea what it means. I just had my head slammed into a door so I refuse to decipher jack shit.  

“I said hey man you alright,” she repeats and paws at the leaves stuck to my shirt.

“Oh. No, I’m not.” I feel an urge to not raise red flags and yet … “No, I’m fine. I just fell. You can leave.”

“You sure? You look kinda rough. Is all that your blood?”

“I’ve been on the road too long. I fell.”

“That’s a big ass cut on your head, though.”

When I sit up and lean against the tire, I realize it’s just past dawn and I can see deep into the woods. I should have just booked it. It’s not even that dense.

My eyebrow has crusted over and I probably look like I lost a fight with a shotgun full of gravel.

She chuckles and points at my lap. “Hey man, XYZ.”

I look down to find my jeans still unzipped and wrenched halfway down my thighs. I ignore her laugh and zip up my pants, trying not to think too hard about what befell me while I was knocked out.

“I was taking a piss and a couple guys grabbed my wallet,” I say.

“Oh, you’re _that_ guy!” she says, her voice bubbly with excitement.

“What the hell do you mean, that guy?!”

“Wallet guy!”

For a moment I study her face. Does she know me? She’s young enough to be a student of mine. Probably one of the many highschool girls that spend her summer chasing boys and hitchhiking between concerts. She smells like pot and toilet bowl cleaner and has long dirty-blonde hair and a worn out backpack at her side.

“Yeah, I guess I’m wallet guy.”

“Your wallet’s in the diner,” she tells me. “I found it in the parking lot. I was lookin’ at your license. You’re way cuter in person.” She gets all dewy-eyed when she says this like I’m in any state or mood to be mocked.

And I’m not cute, goddamn it. Who the hell tells a grown-ass man they’re cute? How bad is that photo if she thinks my blood and gravel-covered face is better looking?

“Okay,” I say, shaking my head. “Is there any money still in it?” She bites her lip and I roll my eyes. “You can keep a five, I want the rest back.”

She smiles like she just won the lottery. It’s probably the easiest five bucks she’s ever made out here on the road. She better appreciate that.

“Oh, your dog took off when I saw you,” she says. “He ran into the woods. Want me to help you look for him?”

I don't know what she's talking about and need to get out of here. I had two days to get to Denver and I should have left hours ago.

“I don’t have a dog,” I say, and I slide my glasses back on as I stand. “Is my wallet at the counter? I’m leaving.” She stands up and nods, so I push past her and head back into the restaurant.

Seeing that it’s both _bright_ and _early_ now, the diner is starting to fill with locals getting off the night shift and travelers up early to get back on the highway. If I didn’t taste blood and feel like shit I probably would have stayed for breakfast, but I’m too sick and disoriented to eat, so I head straight to the overwhelmed register.

“Someone find a wallet?” I ask the throng of waitresses.

Without looking up from a stack of checks, a middle-aged redhead pulls out my leather bi-fold and tosses it in front of me.

She looks up and sneers. “What the hell happened to you? Get fucked by a bear?”

Jesus Christ. “I fell,” I snap, and as I turn to leave that young blonde runs right into my chest.

“Hey, are you rolling out?” she asks.

She doesn’t even try to excuse herself and I don’t have time for this shit. I shove past her and through the door. Unfortunately, the door doesn’t jingle behind me, and she’s still nipping at my heels like a damn puppy.

“Hey! You heading out?” she asks me again, like I didn’t hear her the first time.

“What do you think?” I snap, throwing my wallet into my cab. I hop in, slam the door, and lean back. A night knocked out and debased on a pile of gravel is definitely not what I’d needed, and now I have that acrid taste of humiliation in my bloody mouth. I haven’t had the chance to check my body, and I really don’t want to, but other than a splitting headache and a pretty sore cheek, I don’t feel too bad considering.

Suddenly, my well-worn copy of _Sirens_ slaps against my passenger window. “Hey man!” she shouts. “This yours?”

Goddamn it. If it and the gun weren’t the only damn things I kept in the divorce, I would’ve left it.

I reach across the seat and open the door. “Yeah, give it to me.”

The book slides through the cracked door and her face peeks in after it. “If you’re headed out, can I get a lift?”

No. No she can’t. I hate picking up hitchhikers. They ruin the silence of my ride, mess with my tapes, and expect me to pay for their damn food when we stop.

“I can pay,” she says, and I can hear her cocky smile. Yeah, she can pay me with my own damn money.

I sit for a minute and collect what’s left of myself. You would think I’d get a year, hell, maybe a month of peace. I ’ ve tried like hell to be normal, and I failed. I even tried to be a good kid – do all my homework, get a job after school, help my teachers and family. I kept watch over the little kids in my neighborhood because I felt like I needed to. No one watched them, and after two three-year-olds from my block disappeared one Christmas never to be heard from again, I felt like I’d let down the world.

My neighbor was an old woman with a shithead for a husband, and I remember taking them both food every Thanksgiving. They’d only eat the green beans and cranberries so it was easy for me to make as a nine-year-old. I worked hard to feed all the strays, but that was irrelevant. Because I was forced into the vacant roll of my father’s cook and caretaker, everyone called me a fag. I’ll never understand why caring about people made me a damn degenerate though. I thought taking care of others was what made a person good. But good’s just not good enough anymore. You have to be a little bad,too. And if goodness is out and sin is in, why the hell call me a faggot? Aren’t they the quintessential sinners to society? You can’t win with these paradoxical morons.

This whole thing with the girl is just unfair. I need to be alone right now. I need to think, and in about ten miles, I’m probably going to pull over and throw up. But she’s still peeking in my window, waiting for the verdict.

I know I can’t leave her here. She’s a kid. She’s another damn stray and my hands are tied.

“Fine,” I say, waving at her. “Get in, but shut up.”

She pulls open the door and throws in her bag before hopping in like she owns the place. “Thanks, man,” she says and slams her door. “I was hoping you were cool.”

Well this day can just go to hell already. We’re only two, maybe three minutes out and she starts talking like a lunatic.

“So some guys jumped you?” she starts. If I don’t answer, this has to stop eventually. “They didn’t take your wallet though. They dropped it behind your truck.”

“Yeah, well, I guess they’re just really shitty bad guys .”

“I guess,” she says. She starts digging through the box of cassettes on my seat and my back stiffens as the cases scratch across each other. They’re all opening up, and tapes are sliding to the bottom of the box. I can’t stand it.

Her gum clicks in her mouth as she reads their spines. “Your truck’s really clean,” she says, tossing my tapes back to their unorganized doom. “Normally they aren’t this clean.”

“I like things clean,” I say. I’ve always preferred order. I don’t understand the point of living in chaos when you have the option not to. “Can you not mess up my tapes?”

She drops what few are still in her hand and leans back in her seat. “So how far you going? I need to get to Salt Lake.”

“Denver.”

“And after Denver?”

“Chicago and then back to Detroit. That’s kind of how this job works.” I look over at her innocent face, all round and pink. “You do know this is a job, right? We aren’t a taxi service.”

“I know,” she says, but you can hear her disappointment. Hitchhikers seem to think they’re doing truckers some kind of favor by begging them for a lift, like we’re just frothing at the mouth for irritating company. I’m on the road for two goddamn reasons: to get paid and to be alone. Hitchhikers get in the way of both of my goals.

This one, though, she’s just a kid. She dresses older but you can tell by her bagless eyes that she’s barely sixteen.

“I’ll drop you before I hit Colorado,” I say. “Stay on 80 and someone’ll pick you up. It’s a straight shot to Salt Lake.”

“Yeah, ok,” she says, and her eyes drift out the window.

Their hands are another dead giveaway. Young girls have smooth, soft hands. Older women are a little rougher. They’ve seen a couple night shifts or factories and have an extra decade of smoking under their belt. It all shows up on their hands.

The girl’s calm and quiet for now, which is a blessing. My mind, on the other hand, is a damn train wreck. It’s churning and chugging with volatile memories and it’s making me so edgy, I want to jump out of my skin. I keep smelling diesel, and I really want to change my clothes, but with her in my cab, it’s next to impossible.

I keep driving anyway but I can barely see road signs though my headache. “Hand me the aspirin in my glove box.”

She opens the glove box and hesitates before carefully pushing aside my gun to pull out the bottle of aspirin wedged at the bottom. She hands it to me and shifts back to her door.

“It’s not loaded,” I say, snapping back a couple pills. My intent isn’t to scare her, but hell, if it keeps her quiet, good.

She reaches down and picks up my wallet off the floor and tucks the rest of the cash she lifted back inside it. It seems like an honest gesture until she starts fishing through it again, as though it’s not a complete invasion of my privacy.

“So, is this a picture of your wife?” she asks, holding up a photo of my ex and me, taken a few days after our wedding.

Yes, I still have a picture of her in my wallet. I know how it looks. “Ex-wife,” I correct.

“She’s so pretty! Why ex?”

“Because a lot of other men thought she was pretty too.”

“Oh,” she says. Yeah, oh. Not everyone’s lives are full of peace and love and bubble gum. “You got kids?” she asks. “You look like you got kids.”

I wanted kids. I really did. We tried for a year – a really painful year – but it never happened. That was before we found out about my little problem, and then after that, sex just seemed pointless.

“No. No kids.”

“You like the dead?” she asks.

I’ve never really thought about it. That’s not a question most people ask. I don’t have a problem with death, I never have. I’ve wished for it a lot actually. It’s a natural part of life and nothing to fear even though I know people do. People are so afraid of pain, but it’s the severed connections that hurt us so badly, not death itself. It’s facing mortality and realizing that we, as humans, are ultimately selfish creatures. When we lose someone we love, we mourn what we don’t get anymore because we miss them. We feel cheated, but what was taken from us was never ours to begin with. We don’t lose anything when someone dies except our own selfish ideas of what could have been. We grieve for that dinner plate our mom will never set in front of us. We grieve for that trip we won’t get to take with our dad. We grieve for our child because we won’t get to see them grow up, and we wanted to desperately. Eventually, we mourn what our loved ones missed: traveling to new places, making babies, being happy, and growing old. But initially, it’s all about us. It probably has to do with self-preservation. We all have to hate death a little. If we didn’t, we’d be too ready to welcome our demise.

Growing up in Louisiana, the dead were shoved in your face. Huge vaults would remind you how close death knocks, and my dad was terrified of Voodoo. Said it was nothing more than animal sacrifices, women fucking zombies, and calling on evil spirits to bring bad mojo to good, honest folks. He was superstitious and never cared much for colored people. In fact, he refused to go into a corner market near our house because he said it was run by a “Voodoo queen.” She was just a colored lady with her hair wrapped up in a scarf but she may as well have been a witch doctor. I would stop in a couple times a week and she would let me pour through old _Fate_ magazines, because she and I both loved to learn about UFOs. Sometimes she’d let me light her altar in the back of the store. It was just a couple of glass candles with Catholic saints on them, but the altar itself was always covered in colorful bottles of booze, packs of smokes, and bananas.

Even though my dad never found out, it was satisfying to be doing something I knew he’d freak out over. He was terrified of the occult and dying by proxy. Of course, he had watched his wife die. If the love of my life was suddenly taken from me and I was handed a baby as consolation, I think I’d be both terrified and pissed at death, too. So my dad got a few nights a week alone, without the cause of his wife’s death staring at him from across the dinner table, and I got to pretend to be a Voodoo king, learn about aliens, and drink Dr. Nut after school.

“Death isn’t that scary,” I say.

“I mean the Grateful Dead,” she clarifies, and I feel like an idiot. She’s rooting through my box of tapes again. “You don’t have any of their albums.”

“You’re right,” I say, “I don’t.”

This is another shameful aspect of my life that I don’t like to talk about. I’m a goddamn geek. I’m an idiot and can’t carry on a conversation to save my pathetic life. My mind just can’t hear the bullshit nuances that everyone else hears. I don’t “get” a lot of jokes, I don’t pick up slang, and small-talk is the bane of my existence. I hate ordering food and I haven’t used a telephone in years. I get nervous and feel sick when I approach a cash register. I’d rather someone come up to me screaming, “I just killed a man, my house is on fire, and there’s a knife in my back,” than try to figure out what the hell to say in response to, “It’s pretty hot outside.” It’s July, you asshole, what’d you expect?

“My sister took me to see The Dead last summer. We had a blast,” she says.

“How old were you last summer?”

“Fifteen.”

“And your parents were okay with that?”

“Hell yeah, my folks are cool,” she says. And irresponsible. “My sister goes to the University of Iowa. That’s in Iowa City.”

“In Iowa?” I mock, and she glares at me. “Well, I’m glad you had fun.”

“Jerry stopped the whole show so everyone could move the chairs and dance,” she gushed.

“Well … I’m glad you had fun .”

She goes back to digging through my tapes. “You listen to the stuff my parents listen to. Old stuff like Dean Martin …”

“It’s what I like. I guess I’m old.”

“You wanna know my name?”

“I guess, sure.”

“Everyone calls me Junebug,” she says, and I nod, but I really don’t care. “Want to know why I’m going to Salt Lake?”

“Not really.”

Her smile falls and she turns back to the window. I know I should try to be nice. She’s just a kid, but damn it, I already gave her five bucks and a ride.

Of course eventually, I cave anyway because I'm a pushover, and I finally ask her why she’s headed to Salt Lake.

“I’m staying with my aunt for the rest of summer. She got a job at the new theatre they’re opening downtown.”

“That’s nice for her.”

“You know, you’d be a lot cuter if you weren’t so rude.”

Oh, come on! “First off, young lady, I’m old enough to be your father, so knock off the cute bullshit. Second, I’m doing you a damn favor. Would it kill you to say, ‘Thank you, sir,’ or ‘I’m sorry I messed up your tapes. I’ll put them back, sir?’ No, it wouldn’t. Now that five bucks in your pocket is to thank you for checking to make sure I wasn’t dead this morning. And it’s more than you deserve since you stole all my money in the first place.”

“I gave it all back!”

“Because I told you to!”

“I take it back. You’re not cute. You’re ugly and mean!”

Jesus Christ, I’m not dealing with this for another second. I pick up my radio receiver, hellbent on ridding myself of this Chatty Kathy.

“This is Hopper-Dropper, looking for a westbound on 80. I have a beaver here, needs a ride to Salt Lake.”

“What are you doing?” she snaps.

“I’m finding you a ride. You’ve outstayed your welcome, little girl.”

The radio crackles and a nasally voice snickers, _“Hey Hopper, she blonde? Check to see if the carpet matches the drapes! I only like ‘em when they match!”_

Creeps abound, goddamn it. It’s like sending a lamb into a sexually deviant lion’s den. I bark into the receiver, “Let's be nice. Anyone else? Her father’s dead and she’s paying her last respect – doesn’t want any trouble. Just got ditched by her boyfriend. C’mon back if you’ll be passing through North Platte anytime soon.” There are a lot of folks heading through Nebraska, and both truckers and travelers have CBs, so I know it won’t be long until I get a decent hit.

“Why’d you just say all that?” she asks. “I never had a boyfriend and my dad’s not dead.”

“Gives you a sob story. Makes you look like a daughter and not a piece of meat. I’ll try to find you a nice ride. You’re too young to be out here alone and you don’t need any shit.”

My radio crackles again and a garbled voice pipes up, _“Hopper-Dropper, I’m on my way to Reno – passing right through Salt Lake. I’ll be at the hook in North Platte in an hour. Your beaver’s safe with me.”_

I’ve heard that muddy voice before. He doesn’t pronounce his Rs. “What’s your handle?” I ask him.

There’s a long pause, and then he says, _“Cold Eggs.”_  My spine shivers and I get a sick feeling in my gut, but the girl’s oblivious, chuckling at his ridiculous name.

“That was fast! Thanks for finding me another ride. All the way to Salt Lake, too!”

My head’s shaking because she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “No,” I say to her. “You’re not going with him.” She looks at me like I’m nuts and I pick up the handset. “Cold Eggs, thanks for the offer, but change of plans. Maybe next time.”

 _“I look forward to it, Hopper-Dropper,”_ he says.

“What was wrong with him?” she asks. “And how am I gonna get to Salt Lake now?”

“I’ll take you the whole way.” Probably safer for both of us anyway.

Her face looks worried, but she lays back in her seat, relaxing now that we have another nine hours together. It’s going to double my trip and screw up my log book.

“I appreciate you doing that,” she says.

She better appreciate it. There are some real goddamn monsters out here.


	4. Luck is Not the Hand of God

I’m back between timid and Timbuktu when I hear,  _“Hopper-Dropper,”_ called from across the diner. It sounds more like  _Hoppa-Droppa_ when it comes out of his garbled, cigarette-filled mouth. I don’t bother to look up from my novel because he’s going to ignore me whether I protest or not.

He plops down across from me at the table, smug and smiling. “Why’d you deny me a little tail back in North Platte?” he asks.

“I denied you nothing,” I snap, still buried in my book. “And she was sixteen, you asshole – not a piece of tail.”

I assume his eyes widen and he smirks like the dick that he is, but I refuse to look at him.

“I thought you were finished and wanted to hand her off. My mistake.”

As much as I want to ignore him, his assumptions about me are too disgusting to brush off. “She’s a human being. She has decent parents and an older sister. She’s not a damn hooker.”

“What’s wrong with being a damn hooker?” he says. I use my book to cover his face because I can’t look at his twisted grin . “And you said her dad was dead, you little liar.”

He knows I’m not going to respond to him, so he flags down a waitress for a cup of coffee, forcing me to break my silence.

“You’re not staying at my table,” I say. “You can sit back up at the counter and leave me the hell alone.”

“You getting any food?” he asks and cran es his head to look at the specials. His blatant rejection of my demands has me wondering if he isn’t deaf. It would explain his inability to enunciate.

“Did you hear me? I said move along,  _Cold Eggs.”_

He chuckles but doesn’t move, smoke still pouring out his nostrils like a dragon. “I was guessing it was you, and I was right. I already recognize your twitchy little voice ."

“Why are you following me?”

“Last I checked, the roads to Denver didn’t belong to you,” he says. When the waitress comes back, he orders two of their Saturday specials – rib-eyes with fried eggs – and settles back in his chair. “A steak and  _hot_ eggs,” he says. “My treat.”

“I don’t want your damn food, or your company.”

He leans forward on the table like he’s preparing to whisper to me, so I drop my book and lean away. I have no desire to be anywhere near this cretin.

“Why are you being so rude?” he asks, “I don’t tend to like rude people.”

“Well, I don’t like you, so we’re even.”

“I never said I didn’t like you. I thought we were friendly.”

His grin is insufferable. What in god’s name would make this asshole think we’re friendly? “Do you have any idea how detestable I find you? You’re dirty, perverted, invasive and you know what?  _Rude._ I’m minding my own business and you’re apparently minding my business too. I don’t like it. You’re annoying.”

“I'm _annoying,”_ he repeats, mulling the word over his lazy tongue. “You don’t think it’s a good idea to have friends? Especially on the road?”

“No. I don’t need friends. I got all the company I need right here,” I say, tapping the cover of my book. I only have the one book, but its characters offer me more than enough social interaction, and its black humor keeps me entertained. I don’t need people. I need space, and time travel, and my own morbid thoughts.

“Well, I think it’s good to have a friend at your back. It’s safer than the alternative,” he says as our waitress drops the steaks at the table.

I sneer down at our lunch of shoe leather and eggs. “I’m not really a fan of having someone at my back. That’s where a lot of stabbing happens ."

He snickers with an inordinate amount of pleasure. “Stabbing, among other things,” he says, and I unintentionally scowl.

“What the hell’s that mean?”

“Nothing, friend.” He's focused on his steak, cutting it into unnecessarily small pieces and dipping it in his yolk like a very concentrated five-year-old. “You should eat,” he says, “Keep up your strength. A good diet is the foundation of health, wouldn’t you agree?”

Who is this guy? If he wants to wax on about food and health he can do so at the counter with the chain-smoking waitress who keeps coughing on all the clean plates. “Food is necessary to live. That’s all.”

“I thought you’d be more passionate about it.”

“You’d be wrong,” I snap.

“It happens.”

I grumble because I don’t want his damn food, but I haven’t eaten in days, so I relent and pull the plate closer. A free meal is still free, even if it has aggravating strings attached.

He’s pleased that I’m eating and I almost get up and leave, but the food is hot so I stay. I can abandon him mid-sentence after I eat. It will be far more satisfying if my belly’s full and he’s talking shit again.

“So you haul steel out of the Motor City,” he says. “You grow up there, too?”

“No.” I avoid his probing eyes when I talk. I’m not one to divulge personal information, but a couple small tastes can’t hurt. “I’m originally from Baton Rouge, then Baltimore. Now, nowhere.”

“Nowhere? You get kicked out or are you just unwanted?”

“Maybe both,” I say between bites of gristle.

“Mama wants you to fly and wifey wants you to die,” he snickers.

Such a clever little shit. “I never knew my mother; she was dead before I’d opened my eyes, and my  _ex_ -wife can go screw herself for all I care.”

Despite the tragedy that is my life, he still chuckles. “Ouch. That bad? Why do you wear the damn ring then?”

I forgot I still had it on. I’d been twisting it with my thumb this whole time. I honestly never thought about it being a symbol of my marriage, but it is very shackle-like. I should have tossed it in the trash the day it slipped onto my finger, and yet here it is, still as heavy on my hand as ever.

“I don’t know why I still wear it,” I admit, because the truth is too painful to say. I like feeling normal. I like pretending to have a family back home – a wife and a couple kids, and maybe a few dogs underfoot. I like the picture in my head of being the kind of man who parks outside an average looking house with an average looking wife inside. I like to pretend that my wife makes a hot dinner, doesn’t talk too much, and can get my dick hard. I like to think that she lets me make love to her before we fall asleep every night. I like the idea that my nuts work and I have genes wandering around outside my body, playing ball and reading books. I like the idea of normalcy more than actually living it. Living a normal life is for chumps, I’m finding out, but it doesn’t make it any less desirable to a weak and cowardly man.

“You should hock the ring,” he says. “You don’t need a slut tying you down.”

“Can you not be so goddamn crude? And you’re talking about my wife.”

“Ex-wife, and why do you care? She’s gone, and now, so are you. Time to move on.”

What the hell does he know? He’s just some jack off – a lifelong bachelor with an ego bigger than the trailer he’s hauling. “I take it you’re not married then.”

“Never had the unfortunate pleasure, or the unfortunate desire, thankfully.”

“It isn’t all bad . ”

“Yes it is,” he says, taking a drag, “every damn minute of it.”

“And how would you know?”

“Look at you. You’re one cold meal away from going apeshit and slaughtering every person in this place. That’s not a man who’s happy with his life. That’s an angry, desperate man. That’s you in a damn nutshell.”

“I’m not desperate, and you don’t know me.”

“But you have to be angry. If I were you, I’d be ready to snap.”

If he were me? He’s physically seen me twice and he claims to know my life story. You can assume all you want about another person, but until you talk to them, see them, and look through their eyes, you don’t have a damn clue. Humanity is a selfish, immature playground. We all run around,  _playing_ with each other, snatching sand buckets and shovels from each other’s hands. We push one another off ladders. We kick each other while we swing. When someone gets hurt, we run as far and as fast as we can so we don’t get blamed for their injury or be forced to help them, God forbid. And we do all this while glancing over our shoulders, looking for the adults who will hold us accountable, but they aren’t there. We’re the adults, and it’s a goddamn free-for-all.

It’s only when we’re injured, maimed, bludgeoned, and humbled that we even glimpse the viewpoint of another person. We have to be hobbled, or get cancer, or watch our child die just to feel a modicum of empathy. I don’t like that world. People don’t want to be peace-loving and kind like the hippies keep touting. They want to be cruel and unjust because power makes us come faster than sympathy.

I’ve tried to do the right thing. I’ve tried to help those who were lost or struggling. When my wife was going through her repentant good girl phase, she’d occasionally make me go to church with her. She didn’t like people whispering about how I was an invalid, never seen outside my English classroom. She said it reflected poorly on her to have such an unfriendly husband. I thought she was full of shit, but since I was enamored with white picket-fence normalcy, I agreed that my behavior was less than ideal.

Right after we were married, she’d agreed to do some church potluck dinner to make herself look all high and mighty. On my way up the steps to the big Brethren in Christ, I found a grubby man sitting alone outside the locked wooden door. I asked him his story, and he told me he was hitching south. His sister, who was more like a mother to him, was hospitalized with some kidney problem. He was a vet and shook when he spoke. He told me he had a problem with smack since he came back from Vietnam and was looking for spare change or a ride. His brain was fried and his eyes drifted when he spoke. He was skin and bones and made the whole front of the church reek of piss and kerosene .

I brought him inside and rummaged through the donation boxes – gave him a couple changes of clothes and some cash, and had him stay for the dinner. We had a nice time, even though he stuck to the wall at the back of the church and talked to himself. He ate a couple plates of food and wrapped up a few dinner rolls to take with him. I left him for a minute to go grab an old raincoat from my car, but by the time I came back, he’d snuck out the back door and was gone.

I caught such shit from both my wife and the congregation. Why had I let him in? Why ha d I give n  him anything from their donations? He smelled like shit and I let him touch their food. How could I allow such vile things to happen to their immaculate church?

I’ve never seen people turn on their god so fast. That vet wasn’t their neighbor. Hell, he wasn’t even human in their eyes. They were just an angry throng of children, pissed that some dirty new kid got a deck of playing cards and a free lunch and they felt he didn’t deserve it. After all, he hadn’t worked for that shit. He was just passing through on his way to rip off another God-fearing church.

The homeless must fast during the summer because soup kitchens, overflowing with staff on Christmas, are lucky to keep their doors open in July. The Red Cross is inundated with blood after a tragedy … but never before. We want to be safe and happy and feel like good people, but only when it suits us – only when it’s fashionable to be good, or when we feel ashamed of ourselves, which should happen more often than it does.

I never went back to church after that because I’m not fond of such innate hypocrisy. That, and my wife was blowing the Reverend, but my stance still stands. Hypocrisy abounds wherever faith gathers. A chapel’s nothing more than a nice stomping ground for the gullible and scared to sanctimoniously congregate and beat each other off.

“I still don’t get why you keep trying to talk to me,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I told you to hit the road, and yet here you sit, gabbing away like all that shit dripping from your mouth is pure goddamn gold. I don’t care what you have to say to me, and I sure as hell don’t want you as my friend.”

I don’t know why, but a blood-red fire erupts behind his eyes. It flickers with a rage I’ve only ever seen in the leer of men on the edge of violence. If I had a better word, I’d use it, but I don’t … He looks like the devil in a person suit. How I’ve managed to piss him off so mercilessly I don’t understand. He doesn’t know me. He’ll never know me, and that resolution drops like a stone wall between us.

“I told you that I dislike rude people, and that was very rude.” His voice has gone deep and dark like a cavernous well, but I’m in no mood to be intimidated by this asshole.

“And I told you to get lost,” I say. Let the bastard deck me. I guarantee I’ve had way worse beatings for far fewer transgressions. Will he tip the table? Will he throw himself back and storm off? Will his fists clench and break my nose?

No.

Like a monument to self-restraint, he does nothing but stare, and his gaze cuts so deep I can’t look away. I don’t really want to look away. I’m plunging into the black abyss of his eyes, and it is doom and foreboding that overtake me. It’s not that I accidentally fell in, it’s more like I dove. I want to see what’s waiting for me at the bottom of this beguiling jackass. Maybe he has a nougaty center.

When I hit the bottom of his well, I realize I’ve fallen farther than I think – minutes are hours and my feet scramble to find purchase in the muddy soil. It’s dark and wet – damp like a summer graveyard. But I find no great mystery here – no secret hiding in the corner – just contempt and overwhelming isolation. It’s familiar, and I relax for a moment until I realize my feet are sinking out from under me. Then that bloody fire surges again and laps at my veins like venom seeping through my body. It spreads, and as the heat builds and crests, pulsing in the cavern of my chest, I snap out of this prison and back into the now-lifeless diner.

“You done yet, hon?” asks a woman, and I slowly focus on the quiet clinking of cups against saucers and on the gentle spray of the kid washing dishes in the back. “Hey, buddy, you done?” she asks again. The room isn’t lit by the bright outdoors but by the warm glow of hanging lights. My lunch still sits unfinished in front of me – half the steak eaten and one of my eggs now cold and stiff. “Hey man, can I have your plate?” He’s gone, and with him, he took half the diner and the sun.

I finally focusing on the waitress’ gravelly voice. " What do you want?” I wonder.

“Buddy, your plate. Can I have it? We close in twenty minutes.”

The past rushes me, catching up to my racing heart, and I remember him leaving without a word. I remember the sun lowering over the parking lot, tables changing, and waitresses asking me questions I never answered. My coffee cup was refilled hours ago and there it sits, cold and untouched.

“What time is it?” I finally ask.

“Are you trippin’?” She scoffs and scoops up my plate. “It’s almost midnight.”

I need to sleep. I’m a dead man walking. “Is there a motel around here?”

She nods out the darkened window. “Wilbur’s Hampton is just across the street there. It’s a dump, but they have beds if that’s what you're looking for.”

“That’s what I'm looking for,” I say, pulling out my wallet.

“Hunny, your friend paid hours ago. We were all wondering what the hell was wrong with you though, sitting there like a damn mannequin.”

“I’m exhausted . ” I grab my book and make a beeline for the door. I have got to get out of this place. I feel cursed, or damned, or like I’ve been bathed in gasoline and fire rains from the sky. I need air and to close my goddamn eyes.

That shitty motel is just down the road, so I leave my truck and hoof it across the deserted asphalt. The sign simply reads “Vacancy”. There isn’t even a “No” to be lit. There’s a young girl sleeping at the front desk, so I rap on the counter until she rousts with a jolt.

“I need a room,” I snap.

She rubs her eyes and looks me up and down like I’m a prize hog. “Front’s all full, but we got rooms in the back – charged by the hour. That what you want?”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass, I just need a key.”

“Girls are in the back too,” she says to me.

I can feel my lip scowl. I must be exuding some pheromone that reeks of loneliness.

I snatch the room key from her hand and pay for the night. That pillow is the only damn thing on my mind. If I hadn’t just walked over here from the diner, I might have thought I’d been lost in a desert for a couple days. I’m aching and weak. My mouth is dry – desiccated, even – and the warm, wet air makes me realize how thirsty I am. I should have downed my coffee before I took off, but it’s probably better that I get some rest.

It isn’t long before my fatigue gets slapped around a bit and the adrenaline of fear perks me right up.

It’s not  _Cold Eggs_ I see as I round the building, but a different man – a nameless man who held a gun to my face not two days ago – a faceless man who bashed my skull against my truck door – a merciful man who dropped me to the ground before he impinged upon my rights to go about my life unsullied.

I freeze and watch him chat it up with a woman in tall boots and ultra short shorts, plumes of smoke billowing from both of them. He’s laughing like a hyena. She’s flirting, winking, and pawing this John like he’s the last man on earth. I watch it like it’s the first time I’ve seen other humans, and I have no idea what I’m looking at. Are they hairless monkeys? Do they see me? Are they dangerous? Yes, no, and most definitely.

She leaves him to duck inside a motel room, and I’m inexplicably inspired by the sudden solitude he and I now share. If I was a rational man, I’d have turned to room three and gone to bed. But I think my rationality dropped from my hand at the bottom of a well a few hours ago.

Before I hear my feet padding across the hot pavement, my fist catches him in the jaw and he drops.

My knuckles crack his chin over and over and skin burns. A coward fights this dirty, if he fights at all, and since I've always been a coward, I can justify my reaction as just another rung on the ladder that lowers me into my pit of male inadequacy.

I suddenly can’t see anything in the hazy glow of the building’s floodlight, until my eyes focus on the spray across my glasses. Speckles distort the scene, blocking out the worst of it, and I realize I’m straddling him in the middle of the parking lot, my chest heaving from the sprint. 

 _His_  chest, however, feels uncompelled to heave after my arrival. Maybe I taught him a life lesson this time. This is what happens to uncivilized men who find themselves alone in the dark. This is what happens when you don’t defend yourself.

When I catch my breath, I roll his bloody, motionless head and find a four-inch rock embedded in his temple. A sea of smooth blacktop surrounds us, and I fell him on a four-inch stone that now protrudes from his cracked skull. I’ve been outdone by a goddamn rock and my heart suddenly stops at this realization.

I hadn’t dropped my rationality, I’d hidden it, and it floods me like a monsoon. I’m sitting on a dead body behind a dirty motel in the middle of the night. I’m not a criminal. I'm a law-abiding English teacher turned trucker. I'm not a psychopath. I’m a divorcée and a coward, and I just killed a man for no reason.

I scramble to my feet and back away. No one saw me – no one’s here. We were alone when I hit him. If I run, I can get back to my truck and get the hell out of Dodge before the cops show up.

But what do I do about the body? Do I leave it? Hookers will flood this lot in a matter of hours. Do I hide it? Where the hell do you hide a goddamn body? I can’t even lift the bastard!

This wasn't supposed to happen. I don’t kill people on purpose. It was an accident. It was practically self-defense. He’d hurt me. What I did is justifiable because he attacked me first, and that’s exactly what I’ll tell the police when they’re hauling my ass away. He started it!

No. I’m not going to jail because this asshole’s a thief and a pervert.

I rush back to the body and scoop under his arms. The only option I see is to drag him into the woods lining the lot. It won’t hide him for long, but I got to do something. I can’t go to prison. They'll eat me alive.

As I drag him away from the motel, a black dog tears ass out of nowhere and circles me, growling and nipping at the man’s feet. He’s yanking on guy's pants, and every step I take he knocks me off balance and I drop the bastard back to the goddamn ground.

“Get outta here!” I snap, but the black cur keeps gnawing at his boots. There is no way in hell I’m getting this body hid with a damn dog growling and snapping at me.

“You look pretty fucked,” says a garbled voice behind me. “And not in a good way.”

I rip around, dropping the body, and  _Cold Eggs_ stands at my back, sneering at me like he’s the happiest bastard in the world.

“I am fucked,” I snap. “I didn’t kill this son of a bitch. He fell.”

He nods to my bloody hands. “Fell on your fists, I see."

“Something like that. You gonna help me?”

“Where’s your book?” he asks, and I scan the ground. I dropped it by the motel in a puddle of blood. “You told me all the friends you needed were in your book. Want me to get it for you? Maybe it can help.”

This cocksucking bastard is the last thing I need mocking me, so I yank on the body again. The dead man’s too heavy, and there is no way in hell I’m getting him to the woods without someone else noticing. And the goddamn dog won’t stop wrench on him!

“You still want me to get lost?” he asks. “Or are you ready to admit that having an associate out here might not be such a bad idea?”

“Okay, fine! We’re friendly. Is that what you want me to say? I don’t even know your damn name.” I grunt as I haul the man another two inches. “But I need help right now. Are you going to stand there or are you gonna fucking help me?! Get this goddamn dog off him!”

“Garm!” he growls, and the dog drops the man’s pant leg to rush to his side. “I’ll help you,” he says, and I can hear his arrogant smile uptick his voice as he speaks, “But you’ll owe me, you understand?”

“Fine, whatever, get his legs.”

He remains motionless despite my pleas, so I grit my teeth and snap, “Please … Please get his legs.”

“Never underestimate common courtesy. It could save your life one day,” he says as he approaches the body. “And I’ll get his arms, you get his feet.”

“Common courtesy’s not that common,” I say, and he nods with an eerie grin.

Having never had the opportunity or need to carry a dead body, I'm clueless, so I do as instructed. Eggs looks like the type of person who’s disposed of bodies, and in this case, I suppose that’s a good thing.

The two of us tromp through the underbrush, weaving around trees until we’ve made it about ten yards into the pitch black woods.

Behind us at the motel, doors are opening and people laugh, bottles smash on the ground, and voices carry through the hot, moist air. We drop the body and crouch beside it, waiting for the commotion to die down.

“Shit, my book,” I snap under my breath. I left it covered in blood where I dropped the sick bastard. If it was a literal smoking gun it would be less incriminating than that book. My name and address are scrawled inside the cover.

My accomplice clicks his tongue until his dog circles back to us. “Book,” he huffs, and the dog takes off towards the parking lot. Did he just send his dog to retrieve my novel? I want to ask, but I don’t dare speak. There is still a crowd of hookers and drunkards milling around the motel.

After a minute of waiting, the dog crashes through the brush to drop the bloody book at my feet. This is insane, but that dog is a goddamn genius. Garm lays down next to me and I tousle his fur. This dog’s getting his own damn steak if we ever get out of this mess.

As we continue hunkering down, waiting for the last straggling hookers to find Johns, the ground between Cold Eggs and I begins to moan. The asshole we drug into the wood is still alive and he starts to flail around, hollering like a banshee.

Without a word, Cold Eggs tips the man’s head back and with a crack, sends him towards whichever maker the bastard prayed to.

And now, goddamn it, we _are_ friends – best buds – comrades in arms, and since I didn’t technically kill anyone, I’m feeling a whole lot better about my role in this debacle.

“You owe me another one,” he whispers, and I can’t really argue. I’m just hoping whatever he wants in return isn’t going to bite me in the ass.

The lot clears again, and Eggs stands to peer out at the dimly-lit row of motel doors. His fingers gesture for me to stand, so I do, still gripping my bloody book. This man’s acting like he’s definitely done this before and Garm’s circling me as she sniffs the ground. Somehow, despite my new acquaintance's grisly behavior, I feel more at ease, more protected and more under control at this very moment than I ever have before.

Eggs continues staring out from behind the shadow of a tall tree. All I can see are his arms, vaguely lit by the floodlight – palms open, index fingers twitching, biceps flexing as he listens to the parking lot finally fall silent.

He starts to snicker when he says, “You’re unpredictable. I like that. But it means I don’t have my axe.”

“Your axe?”

“I’ve only got my knife, so I’ll improvise. Watch the doors.”

He drops back to the body, and I scan the lot, searching for movement from … I don’t know: people, bears, or anything else that might make this disaster more dangerious than it already is.

Behind me, a sharp click echoes under the blanket of darkness, but I don’t look. I stay focused on that row of dingy, green doors.

Look out.

Keep watch.

That's my job.

The doors and the thick drapes are all shut tight. Everyone’s bedding their whores, so I give us maybe thirty minutes max before the parking lot’s flooded again with a whole slew of sexual options if you don’t mind sloppy seconds.

The sound of Garm’s flapping jaws turns my head. He’s eating something off the ground at my feet, but I can’t see anything. Eggs is still crouched over the body, his shoulders wrenching back and forth like he’s pummeling the damn thing with his fists. What the hell’s he doing? It looks like he's beating him into the dirt. Hasn’t the bastard suffered enough indignity? His brain was scrambled by a rock and then he had his neck snapped. I can’t imagine him needing the shit kicked out of him too, though I can’t say I’d be opposed.

My own mind is feasting on a smorgasbord of adrenaline and cortisol, so I can barely see straight, let alone decipher what’s going on. It seems a little odd that Eggs would be taking his time with the body, but he’s clearly not digging a hole.

I lean back and my eyes adjust enough to see him stripping the dead man of his clothes. “What the hell are you doing?” I whisper.

“It’s easier this way, trust me,” he whispers back. He rolls the body onto its belly and pulls on the man’s shirt until it gives with a rip. He lays out the flannel on the tamped grass next to him like he’s making a goddamn bed. Why’s he stripping him? We should be running while all the doors are shut. We could cut along the tree line and come out a half mile down the road. I need to get back to my truck and get the hell out of here.

“Easier?” I ask. “Easier to do what?” He yanks on the waist of the man’s jeans and then it all becomes clear. This sicko’s gonna fuck the dead guy. “What in God’s name are you doing?!”

“Quiet!” he grumbles and he points back to the motel. I’m supposed to be keeping watch, but how can I when this long-hauling son of a bitch is about to cozy up to the dead man’s asshole!

“No, no, hey! You can’t do that!” I’m not panicking, but I’m not sure I convey that to the dog. His low growl vibrates through the trees and I can see the bright glint of his teeth.

“If you try to stop me, you’ll lose your throat,” he says, nodding to Garm's yellow eyes nestled in the brush.

How do you reason with a madman? A civilized society doesn’t go around forcefully sodomizing their dead. A civilized society saves that for the goddamn living.

I feel like I need to stop him because this is insanity …

B ut really … who am I to pry? And I’d much rather have the dog’s slobbering mouth be licking my face, not mauling it.

“But, um, this isn’t right, right? I mean, there are hookers right over there if that’s what you need. I even have a room you can use. We kind of need to go.”

“If I have to tell you to stay quiet again, you’ll be next,” he snaps.

Next? Is that what this crazy-ass means by “friendship”? Helping each other kill people? Keeping lookout while we buttfuck the dead? And then, what? Screw each other after!? This isn’t what I signed up for! I just needed a hand hauling this prick into the bushes !

Cold Eggs is still on his knees, straddling the man. The body is cast in his shadow as he runs his hands down the naked skin of its back. I can’t watch … but I can’t _not_ watch. I’ve never seen this before, and there is a certain amount of justice in what’s about to happen to this dickhead. I’m actually a little pissed that he’s dead now …

I keep glancing up at the doors, all lined up and closed like guards protecting us from a not-so-different kind of sin. If one of those guards falls, though, we are fucked worse than that body’s about to be.

“Can you hurry up?” I snap.

“Patience is a virtue,” he says to me, and he’s right. We should have a discussion about virtuous behavior. This is an excellent opportunity, with fine examples of how to keep ourselves morally righteous. I grit my teeth and go back to looking for hookers.

There has to be a silver lining to all this. I’m getting justice, or possibly revenge. Either way, balance is being restored. That guy was an asshole and he deserves this … I mean, unless he really needed the cash and that’s why he attacked me – but, then again, he didn’t even take my wallet. No, this is right. This had to happen, and I’m glad.

“Do you feel it?” he says, still hovering over the body.

Feel what? Is he talking to me? Christ, I don’t want to feel anything. He needs to keep that shit to himself. If he’s talking to the body, I really need to get the hell out of here.

“Hopper-Dropper, can you feel your blood?” he clarifies. “I bet it’s pumping now.”

“No, not actually,” I whisper, still staring at the doors. “I’m practically falling asleep over here.”

“Then wake up. These are the best parts of life – excitement, camaraderie, little pleasures.” He looks back at me and bites his lip through a sneer. His teeth are as white as the dog’s, but far more menacing.

“You can keep your  _little pleasures_  to yourself,” I say.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He smiles and turns back to the body, which is still naked and splayed out in front of him. “When this is all done, I think you and I should get to know each other. There’s nothing like a little late-night butchering to bring together new friends.”

As he says this, a door at the motel rips open, and I duck down. A half-naked, drunk man stumbles out and vomits all over the bloody pool in front of his door.

As we listen to the drunkard empty his guts all over the parking lot, Cold Eggs continues, “If you have clarity of thought, a fair sense of justice, and good old-fashioned patience, Hopper, the world will deliver.”

This is no time to wax poetically about life and fortitude. “Deliver what?!” I snap.

He grins and turns to me, lifting up a glistening wad of purple flesh. “In this case, dinner.” 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” I scream, scrambling back.

He’s soaked in blood, and the dog’s scarfing up a pile of meat he’s been flinging to it from the body. The flannel shirt is piled with wet, black lumps, ready to be done up like a goddamn hobo’s bindle.

I’ve got to get the hell out of here. I fumble to my knees and try to run. Before I can stand, I’m hurled back to the ground as Eggs tackles me, wrapping his bloody hand around my jaw. I twist, clawing at the ground for anything to grab, but he wrenches my arms back to my sides, pinning my chest to the ground. His breath huffs against the side of my face and I can hear Garm growling over me.

“Clarity of thought, Hopper-Dropper,” he whispers. “You aren’t thinking so clearly. If you run, you lose your neck.”

I squirm under the weight of his body. I’d rather take my chances with the goddamn dog!

His voice grunts in my ear as he tightens his grip on my chest. “Think about what he did. And let’s not forget that you owe me a couple favors for my help. If you run, how will I collect them, Hopper? Eye for an eye, friend. Don't make me take your eye by force.”

Secrecy and prison be damned, this psycho's going to kill me. I wail into his blood-soaked palm, feeling a wetness bubble and pop against my cheek, and as I scream, his fingers clench deeper into my jaw.

Despite my struggling, his voice remains stern and steady. “Patience now. Let’s stay calm and see what happens ."

I can’t get up. I know I can’t. His entire body is crushing my back. I kick my feet until my heel nails him in the shin.

He maintains he grip as his smoky breath huffs across my cheek. "Don't make me repeat myself, son."

He’s negotiating with my fear in the hopes that it will release my logic as a sign of good faith. I hope he's holding his breath.

I’d be lying if I said this all wasn’t a familiar feeling – being cornered, trapped, and at the whim of a far stronger person. The victim/survivor/coward roulette wheel spins in my head, and after thirty seconds of holding my own breath, it slows to a stop.

My eyes unclench, letting my body go limp under his, and I lower my face to the wet leaves. His hand slowly relaxes as he shifts over my body and looks down at the side of my face.

“You’ve decided not to run,” he says. “Is rationality controlling you now, or dread?” He lowers his hand and rolls off me to stare at my face, still heaving in the dirt beside him. “You can save face if you want.”

“I’m not afraid of you ."

He nods. “Good. Since t his is your mess, you're about to clean it up.” He rolls to his feet and strolls back to the body, and I’m left alone, embedded into the ground with Garm patrolling the only direction I can flee. My face is coated in dirt and blood and now I'm completely optionless.

I crawl to my feet, brush the leaves off my shirt, and since Garms growling in the distance, begrudgingly follow Eggs back to the body.

“This,” I say, waving over the flayed corpse among the weeds, “is not my mess.  _I_ punched him.  _You_ butchered him like a lunatic .”

He snickers, but at least he nods and accepts his overwhelming role in constructing the grisly scene between us.

“But the body,” he says, “ you picked it, so start digging.” He kicks leaves and sticks away from the wet earth beside what remains of my mugger, and Garm flies out of the brush to join him, rapidly burrowing into the ground where his boot just skimmed.

“You have him well trained,” I note, dropping to my knees by the body. My fingers gouge into the dirt and I throw fistfuls of earth into the undergrowth.

“She’s been with me since the beginning,” he says, crouching beside me.

The beginning? What's that supposed to mean?

I twist rocks out of the ground, flinging them into the woods, and when he doesn't clarify, I finally ask, “The beginning of what exactly ?”

He nods to the body. "This."

I’m not going to press it. He’s being deliberately vague, and I have no intention of giving him the satisfaction of thinking I find him or his mutt interesting. It’s probably three in the morning, and I’m digging a grave alongside a madman’s snarling dog. Fate is apparently as nasty a bitch as she is.

Between hookers and dealers and the coming and going of vans of potheads, it took two hours to dig a grave deep enough to cover what was left of my assailant.

I crawl out of the hole and lean against a tree, watching Eggs roll the body into the grave. I’m exhausted, but it’s satisfying to see my attacker naked and gutted, with a rock still protruding from his skull. I feel vindicated, and that vindication is somehow bleeding into all the other negative events from my past.

Watching that bastard being covered with dirt is more satisfying than just watching some vicious criminal get wiped from existence. His death gives me back a piece of my dignity, and that is a profound and unexpected sensation.

After Eggs pushes the last mound of dirt over the body, he scoops up my book and tosses it onto my lap.

“Can’t forget that,” he says with a wink.

My lip curls and I know I’m glaring at him; I can’t help it. I was unprepared for the amount of labor required to kill, slaughter, and dispose of a full-grown male. My split knuckles are stiff and caked with mud, and the thick summer air oppressively chokes me every time I inhale. The meager rest Eggs has afforded me by filling in the grave himself has me realizing that the forest is now a deep blue as dawn threatens to expose us and our little escapade.

Eggs ambles over and offers his hand to me. A better man would have refused it. A better man would have spit in it. A better man would have pushed it away and pulled himself to his own feet. He would have nodded his appreciation for a task well done and gone straight to the police.

But I am not a better man. I am a dirt-covered coward, a blood-stained victim, a survivor of nothing but a failed marriage, so I take his hand and he hoists me to my feet.

Our eyes level and he grins at me like a damn fool. That fire just beyond his pupils is now cold, stifled by whatever satisfies this psycho’s tick – death, meat, or forcing another to voyeuristically watch him do what it is he does.

“I’d like to call in a favor,” he says, and his fingers plunge into the right pocket of my jeans.

I don’t move. I wait  _patiently_ for him to finish fishing through my pants as he arrogantly stares into my eyes. When he pulls out my room key, he pockets it and turns around to scoop up his bloody sack of ill-gotten meat and flannel. Then, as if he controls all of time and space, he trudges through the brush toward the dirty motel without a care in the world as a new day breaks over the trees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artist, [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com), surprised me yet again with another doodle of my boys. I will continue to be entranced and amazed by Toni's talent. <3
> 
> Art: [Cold Eggs](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/cRrsTA-vR8Jm740YJ6_lb0xOoaIu7ZPoGVQO3K1Er1MIR1aMV2FSvFFNXzB7zE6Z90L7vgQVUunuanBdUc2mmYdCCujbblnRHwmALenZCQ7UGj-QkVq5Es5k1IYhnz4ZTj3cGT7bWpv3BbCiqVzKWclME27Q7MEQljBj4w_5aQEVWosa6ylfrw-cDd8rx2PMTct4V5wjzAcezNWz1D0Q2gHQql-xDDKhKd4bY6Wd0L0fDXJ31_dvWUysHIo1QleAr6UhtcGAGHwkVM1c3vNXJY8I-bOxhAgKaxWAzkAzREZGkL2NPsbUpuGWW_OTuBR5CvRukzdal5cKAeORxOLXg-_1RJrk4pXLuhgYOGSjW1CqI0Tf9OaM2kdmoGAKa3ShL2a5oBMtGGCJ8sc9Ba9aJRwAYRSaOqMDAbU_YRLRMct4c1nD1P3-g6NtJVhZp9O3DFHkPNSpN3Fcc2n9MydizVqrcpY0rM9_jzCGVLyKmkmA1x0cScmsSoqLLQ9ZXsDrrOS37bn-OwEQ_AuciGaSBok1uazaQwdlhGhhSzMtgJLt0XuQwadTy6htyxYt7S7kfidi29bNaYeRIcCJDE4ojykMqH7sbyEC_KrRmyhAKLJK_bke0ZELkF13lBTWlacaDXZqxXxK5I-cSxF1XOFt5vhDnwwN4F9kVA=w987-h753-no) by [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com/post/168785634042/cold-eggs-just-a-random-sloppy-doodle-cause-for)


	5. Look to Rockets for Salvation

I avoid the river of bloody vomit and turn the knob to my motel room. He left the door unlocked, which is, I guess, a friendly gesture. I wasn’t going to go in, but I need to scrub the blood off my face and the mud from under my nails before I start wandering up the road to get to my truck. The last thing I want is to raise suspicion so close to the corpse we just buried, which is a phrase I never expected to be saying.

This favor Eggs called in better just be to share my room, not take it from me outright. I paid for another four hours, so I better get a chance to at least use the shower before I'm kicked to the curb.

I ease open the door, terrified that the bitch is going to lunge at me, but the dark room is calm. At any moment, I know the guests of this fine establishment are going to be jumping up and scurrying off like rats, back to their real lives and away from the drugs and hookers that Saturday night likes to dole out.

I drop my bloody book next to the phone on the nightstand and I'm reminded, by big black numbers written across the receiver, who I should call in case of an emergency – the Boulder County Sheriff’s Department. I’ll keep that in mind in case my new friend starts to get uppity.

Garm’s already found her spot, curled up on a dingy yellow chair in the corner. A broken double bed is shoved against the wall by her chair, dented in the middle and covered in a stained, red blanket. To my bleary eyes, I’ve never seen a more inviting sight.

The light in the bathroom is on and the door’s cracked. Eggs is in there running water, and I have to piss. I don’t want to bother the psycho, but I really need to get in there before we have yet another bodily fluid to clean up, so I rap my stiff knuckle on the door. “You decent?”

The door opens and I peek inside to find Eggs in nothing but his briefs, washing a buck knife in the sink.

“I just need to take a leak,” I say. He nods to the toilet next to the sink but continues scrubbing the knife. I hate to push it, but I will if he forces me. “Do you mind?”

“You think I haven’t seen a dick before? Just go.”

“I don’t care if you’ve seen one. You haven’t seen mine, so can I have a minute?”

That fire is back in his eyes and he drops the knife in the sink. Before I know what’s happening, I'm slammed against the wall. He yanks down my zipper and pulls out my cock, then shoves me towards the toilet.

“Piss,” he snaps and returns to the knife now submerged in a sinkful of pink water.

I nod like I have a choice and stand in front of the toilet holding myself. How in God’s name am I supposed to piss now? I’m about to burst but can’t even relax my jaw, let alone my bladder with this violent asshole next to me. I know he’s looking at me, but I don’t dare make eye contact. He might just eviscerate me. And I still don't fully understand what he keeps meaning when he calls me his “friend,” and that's starting to bother me.

I stand there with my dick hanging out for what has to be twenty minutes until that fiery gaze is burning into the side of my face again.

He finally shuts off the faucet and clears his throat. “You have a problem, son?”

“No problem.”

“Just piss, it’s not that hard. You aim. You piss.”

“I’m not a monkey. I don’t piss on command. Leave me alone.”

“Want some help?”

“I want you to leave,” I snap, and he shakes his head. I don’t care what the hell he thinks. He can assume I’m a pansy ass. I don’t piss in front of other people. Then he stares me dead in the eye and drops his briefs like we’re in a six-by-six-foot locker room.

He scoffs at my inability to move and turns on the tub faucet. “I’m not leaving. And you need to strip.”

“Like hell I do …”

This asshole’s way too comfortable in his skin. I don’t want to see his cock any more than I wanted him to see mine, and yet here we are: me still hanging out of my jeans and him bare-assed and bent over the filling tub, rubbing his bloody shirt under the water.

“Give me your goddamn clothes or I’ll rip them off your back,” he says.

For a man so obsessed with rudeness, he sure is demanding.

“Why the hell do you want my clothes?”

“You can’t walk around or sleep like that. Put them in the damn water.”

He does have a point. My flannel shirt is muddy up to my shoulders with blood streaked across my chest, and my jeans are more dirt than denim. I unbutton my shirt and toss it in the tub and kick off my muddy boots next to the toilet. He’s still focused on twisting and rinsing the wad of fabric in the tub, so I set my wallet on the back of the toilet and drop my pants to the floor without a sound.

This is all inching a little too close to fucked-up-ville for my taste. I’m now in my boxers and a tee shirt with a bloody collar, trying to piss with a naked murderer washing my clothes in a tub. Let’s not forget that we have to stay quiet so we don’t wake up all the hustlers and whores surrounding us on all sides. I'm not so sure I'm not nestled in the seventh layer of hell.

I can feel my shoulders tense at the prospect of being caught in this compromising trap, and my skin starts to tingle. I have worried my whole life that this kind of shit was just around the corner. I’ve been running from bullies and dodging assholes since I can remember. I’ve tried to keep my nose clean and be a normal, decent person, but I’m a failure at it, and this whole situation is a prime example of just how quickly my life can go downhill.

Heat creeps over the backs of my hands and follows my arms, spreading across my tightening chest as I try to stay upright in front of the toilet. I’m going to go to prison for this shit. Guys like me always go to prison. We’re the kind of men that get fed up and snap one day. We lose our grasp on reality and end up taking out our family and a door-to-door salesman with a shotgun before stepping out into traffic.

I’m going to be destroyed in prison. I can’t defend myself. Those monsters do unspeakable things to guys like me. I’m a goddamn coward and the universe knows it. It’s punishing me because I’m not the man I’m supposed to be. I’m just a chicken shit drifter with a load of steel and a limp dick.

My vision fades to white and my head lightens in the thick, hot air of the bathroom. Everything spins, and I’m going to pass out – and then, out of my dizzy haze, I hear something – faint at first like a melodic ditty repeating over and over behind me. I’ve heard it before, but I don’t know where – maybe the radio or behind the annoying chatter of a restaurant …

As my mind starts to clear, I can focus on the voice and I pick out words …  _long, long, time … no, no, no …_  Did I hear  _rocket man?_  

That asshole’s humming Rocket Man.

It sounds so close to my ear – loud and right over my shoulder. I feel my knees buckle, and I start to drop, but I'm caught and hauled back into something that feels like it’s on fire.

The song keeps going, and my nose burns with the smell of the cigarette smoke being blown against my cheek … 

_I'm not the man they think I am at home …_

I cough as the yellowing walls of the bathroom slowly come back into view. My whole body is heavy and lethargic and all I can see is the peeling wallpaper. There’s a dingy mark where a cross used to hang over the toilet. I must be still standing, but I can't feel my feet.

My head flops forwards, and I hear a clatter and a splash, and a smoky breath huffs against my neck again. I finally focus enough to watch ash tumble over my bloodstained shirt and fall to rest on an arm wrapped around my waist. I’m being leaned against what feels like a scorching wall behind me. My head’s stuffed with cotton, and I can’t breathe through the smoke …

He's still humming the song, his voice breathy and hot, and his face is pressed into my cheek. A grumble resonates through my jaw. “You still with me, Hopper?”

I'm not sure I am. I'm not supposed to be with people like him. They're bad people and I'm supposed to stay out of trouble. I'm supposed to keep my head down and be normal. I'm supposed to keep a job and not make waves … my life depends on it.

“I’m not …," I hear myself mutter, "I'm not the man they think I am at home …”

I feel him snicker and my body shakes as his arm moves from my chest to tap his cigarette on the sink. “Are you the Rocket Man, Hopper?”

If I breathe deeply I might not die, but every gasp is a struggle. My chest feels saturated like I’m drowning at the bottom of a hot spring, but the smoke and smoldering embers at my shoulder drop me right back into the fiery inferno of hell.

“I think I need air,” I mumble.

My body is jerked to the right and a loud bang! cracks against the wall next to the toilet. A steady stream of damp, fresh air blows across my face and it’s damn near ethereal. Sweat pools at my temples and drips from my nose, and I lean towards the air, gulping down the cool draft like I’m sucking on God’s tit.

“I think you need more than a little air,” he says, and my tee shirt catches under my chin as it’s pulled over my head.

I still can’t see anything but the blurry outline of the hinged window that my face is pressed against.

“No, I’m good,” I say, but I’m leaning over a toilet, hugging a wall, and humming Rocket Man like I’m well on my way to a bad trip.

His hands brush down my hips, dragging my boxers with them, and I rub my temple on the cold metal flashing. If his aim’s even halfway decent, he could crack my head against the window and knock me out, but I’m not sure he’s going to want to fuck me collapsed over a toilet. Of course, stranger things have happened today, and this guy does sort of look like a toilet fucker.

I’m yanked off the wall with a huff and clutched against his chest as we stumble back to the center of the tiny bathroom. If he’s not planning to floor me, I’m going to have to fight him, but I have no strength left, and my resolve is deteriorating faster than the moldy shower curtain he shoves me into.

“Stand, Rocket,” he says, and I grab the curtain because when you’re naked and an asshole twice your size tells you to stand up, you better get your ass up. The shower hisses and the curtain rips from my hands. I’m shoved forward until I kick the tub. Assuming I have the right idea, I step in and lean against the slimy wall. He follows, pushing me into the water, and the cold pierces my back like a swarm of bees.

With that assault, the haze evaporates and I see him clear as day, standing in front of me, his eyes clean and ruddy and his face relaxed. I stare for a few seconds until I realize there are lumps and bulges under my feet, and I look down just in case there’s something else I need to be aware of. Our dark wad of clothing is being trampled, blood and dirt squeezing from the fabric every time I shift my weight.

One of Eggs' hands is outside the curtain, holding a lit smoke while the other grips my hip, waiting for me to slip or collapse again. He smiles at my dumbstruck look and says, “Welcome back, Rocket Man. Where’d you go?”

Someplace bad probably. I cringe at the thought and push his briefs to the edge of the tub with my foot. “Prison, I think.”

“Don’t go there," he says, shaking his head. He takes a long drag, blowing smoke over us like a gray raincloud. "Prison is a terrible place to go. Next time, go to Vegas.” He flicks his butt in the sink and his hand rejoins us to twist the faucet, finally warming the water on my back.

“I’ve never been to Vegas,” I say, and like a queer, my voice catches a little when I feel his hot hand massage my other hip.

He seems surprised by either my flinch or my comment, so I decide to assume it’s because I’ve never been to Vegas. Despite my occupation, I’m not a traveler. I’m a homebody. My home just happens to have eighteen wheels now.

“I’ll have to remember that,” he says.

Why would he need to remember that? I’m not going to Vegas with this psycho.

“I’m sure you love Sin City,” I say. “Seems right up your alley.”

“I’m a sin man myself,” he says with a smile. ”Nothing wrong with a little sin. Feels good to look God in the eye once in awhile. Good way to let him know you’re still a-kickin’.”

I groan out a laugh. “God doesn't give a damn about me. He forgot my ass on the side of the road a long damn time ago.” I suddenly wince at a pain in my gut. “My belly’s killing me."

“You still need to piss,” he says, and he’s right. I never did. “Good luck now,” he snickers.

I know why he says that and why he laughed, but I can’t bring myself to look down. I can’t bear to look him in the eye either, so I just stare at the scruffy beard framing his goddamn smirk. I couldn’t even get it up on my wedding night, but after being awake for twenty-four hours and burying a dead body? No problem, apparently.

“It’s the hot water,” I huff.

His smirk fades, and he nods, and that shred of dignity he gives me makes me stutter out an embarrassing  _thank you_ which I had not intended to say.

He takes my arm and turns me around, his hand helping the water to wash the last of the forest floor out of my hair. I stare down at the faucet and can sense him crouch behind me, wringing and flattening out our clothes. He carries on, twisting the damp rags until he’s picked up everything and either tossed it over the sink or draped it across the curtain rod. I don’t know if I’m waiting for him to come back to me or not. I know he can’t be done with me yet, especially after my own damn body betrayed me so viciously.

When I finally muster the nerve to look back at him, I find myself alone and I’m not certain if the hole in my gut is from his rapid departure or from my bladder that finally drains itself into the tub. Either way, I finally feel relief, but also an abject emptiness in the pit of my stomach.

“Rocket Man,” I hear from outside the curtain. “Finish up. I need your help with something.”

“You calling in your second favor?” I ask.

“No. I’m asking my friend for a hand.”

The bathroom door clicks and I’m back to being alone in my misery.

A part of me wants to take advantage of the hot water and the hard dick I finally have within reach. I do somewhat, but all I can hear in my head is Sin Man’s mumbling voice talking about Vegas and God, and how he needs my help. I wasn’t going to finish anyway, so I let go and turn off the water.

There are no towels in this piece of shit motel, so I pick through the wet clothes to find my boxers before I duck back out into the bedroom. Garm’s still sleeping in the chair, and Sin Man’s gone. I peek out the heavy drapes and figure it’s got to be close to seven, since the sun’s throwing its shameful eyes on the vomit and broken glass scattered across the parking lot. It’s oddly quiet and I find myself peering across the asphalt to the little path we tramped into the woods.

Only thirty feet in, there’s a shallow grave where a man with very crude ideas about how we should conduct ourselves as a society lies stripped of his decency, his guts open for the scavengers to pick through when he’s finally unearthed.

Something is drawing me back, and I want to look at the freshly-tilled ground. I want to run my clean hand over the dry blood on the grass. I want to lean back against the tree where I felt my first taste of retribution. I want to see the dirt where I was tackled. I want to feel weight pinning me back to the ground.

I hear an echoing voice snap, “Rocket Man!” and I stop moving.

I’m not in the room anymore. I’m halfway to the woods, and I turn back to see Sin in his wet button up and briefs, carrying something wrapped in my flannel shirt. He’s looking at me oddly and nods back to the wide-open door of our room. I don’t remember opening the door or walking this far, barefoot and in nothing but soaked boxers, so I hoof it back and follow Sin into the room.

“I hope you weren’t checking on our buddy,” he says, dropping his armload into the tub. It hits with a crash, sending ice scattering across the walls of the tub and bathroom floor.

“I was thinking about it,” I say. “And then I was doing it.” I don’t know why I admit this, but I wasn’t intending to go back out there until I was already on my way.

“I don’t think he has anything else to say to you,” he snickers and tosses me my tee shirt. “Help me get more ice.”

He leads me out to an ice chest just around the edge of the building and we load up our shirts. We do this three or four more times until the tub is halfway full.

“What is this?” I ask, and he shows me without a word.

He undoes the bindle of meat and carefully washes each chunk in the sink before laying it over the ice in the tub. He’s careful and deliberate and touches each piece with the tenderness you’d reserve for a baby.

I’ve never seen butchered human flesh. He took mostly offal, which looks a lot like oversized pig organs. I remember being a kid and peeking into the cases at Tramonte's Meat Market in Baton Rouge. We’d make a special trip out there and wait around just so my dad could get gator meat for his goddamn  _alligator etouffée._  I hated that shit, not because it wasn’t good, but because my dad made such a big damn deal out of it. I haven’t tasted it in twenty years though, not since I traded crawfish for blue crabs.

After he lays out the meat in neat little rows – liver, stomach, heart, kidneys – he washes his hands and strips off his wet clothes again.

“You look about as tired as I feel,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s bare naked again and lighting another cigarette. “Go pay for a couple more hours and we can finally get to know each other.”

I hesitate because that sounds like a proposition. It sounds like a proposition because he lays back on the bed, still smoking like a chimney and now sporting one. I don’t mean to stare, but that’s what I do, because I’ve never had such an enticing eyeful in my life which is surprising considering the situation.

I grab my wet jeans from the bathroom and rush to the office. That girl’s a guy in his twenties now.

“Room three,” I say. “I need two … five, no, eight hours, please.” I clear my throat of my indecision, and decide more is definitely better in this case. “Eight hours.”

“Cheaper to get a front room if you’re gonna be all day,” he says, picking out a new key. “Room twelve’s open.”

“I want room  _three._  Eight hours.”

He rolls his eyes at me and scoffs, but takes my money without question. One of the nicer aspects of sleazy motels is that no one asks for identification. Every man is Mr. Smith, and every woman is Hey Blondie.

Sin Man’s eyes are closed, and he’s still lying on his back when I creep in. His cigarette’s resting on the stained blanket, so I ease it out of his fingers and drop it in the ashtray by the phone. The last thing we need is to tempt fate into bringing the fire department to us.

After what we just went through, I really don’t want to wake him up. He risked his neck for me and saved my ass, and the least I can do is let him sleep. The only other place to sit, besides Garm’s chair, is the floor, so I curl up by the bathroom. Sin’s breathing is slow and shallow, and if I didn’t know better I’d think he was listening to everything around us – the trucks rushing past, the crows in the field by the diner, an animal rustling in the woods, and the whir of the ice machine’s compressor – a symphony retelling the story of our last twelve hours.

Sin coughs and rolls on his side, his arm sweeping the bed. He finally spots me in the corner, and I sit up.

“The dog doesn’t even sleep on the floor,” he mumbles, “Are you lower than a dog?”

“I like dogs,” I say, which is a stupid response, but it makes him chuckle. “I mean, I’d give up my bed to a dog if it needs it,” I clarify, but that’s no better a response. Sin’s laughing now, which actually makes me feel a little better about the tub we just filled with human meat. There is no greater medicine for the darkening of humanity than self-deprecating humor.

“You don’t sleep on the floor anymore,” he finally says, “not when there’s a bed.” It’s a declaration that feels as definite as Saint Peter’s gavel. He folds back the blanket and waits.

I know I’m supposed to join him in bed, but a crisis of conscience hits me like a sack of bricks. I know what happens next; I’m not an idiot. I know what he is; he’s a murderer. He’s a human butcher, and I can only assume those chilling kidneys aren’t just dog treats. But if he’s a murderer, then so am I, at least in spirit.

I peel off my soaked clothes and join him in the broken, sunken bed like the lost cause that I am. I could have gone to pay for more time, walked across the street, and hopped in my truck. I could have gone into the diner and called the police. I could have done a lot of things, but I didn’t. I chose to pay for enough time to fuck around and fall sleep, and then I got in this bed with a man who I watched gut and bury another human being.

I wasn’t in danger when I attacked the mugger last night. I wasn’t hurt or threatened. I jumped someone who I felt wronged me, but what right did I have to do that? What right did I have to ask this man to aid and abet me after my poor choice? What right did I have to sink below the mugger’s level and bring Sin Man right along with me?

I want to roll away from him because I’m ashamed of myself, but I don’t know the decorum associated with consensually bedding another man like this. Would he be offended if I turned over? Would he think it’s an invitation to fill me up? Overthinking is hurting more than just my head – my whole damn body aches, and I don’t want to do it anymore.

I’m tired and ready to forfeit my life because I’m out of control. I killed a man by proxy, and his remains are now displayed in my tub like oysters on the half shell. 

That phone on the nightstand is looking more and more enticing and I wonder if it's considered suicide if I call the authorities and confess, when I know I’ll be killed in prison.

He’s still staring at me, watching my eyes dilate as my mind struggles to come to terms with my atrocities.

“Where are you, Rocket Man?” he whispers, and I can feel his hand grip my side.

“Still in prison, Sin Man.”

I guess I hadn’t called him that aloud yet because he cocks his head against the pillow. I can tell by his raised eyebrows that a memory just flickered through his head.

“Have you ever seen Sinatra perform?” he wonders, and his fingers trail down my ribs.

My skin feels like it’s on fire, and I barely hear his question. When I realize he’s waiting for a response, I double back and try to ignore the fact that the divot in the bed has forced us far closer than I was expecting. “Sinatra? I can’t say that I have.”

“I spent ’63 and ’64 in Vegas,” he says, “In my down time I saw the Rat Pack perform a lot.”

“Down time?” Was he working in Vegas? Did he live there? I try to keep my thoughts focused on his mumbling voice and gruff face rather than the heat I can feel emanating off him under the blanket. If I just listen to his words and not his hands I think I’ll survive this.

“The desert’s not a bad place to hunt,” he says. “Interesting terrain, interesting fauna, and a lot of places to hide a lot of different things.”

I think I know what he means by  _hunt,_ but I’m not ready to hear those tall tales just yet.

“I fish,” I say. “Hard to fish in the desert.” His hand is working down my leg and I wish I had the flask of Jack still nestled under the seat of my truck.

“A fisherman? You any good?”

“That’s subjective. I don’t compete, but I can feed myself,” I say.

“That makes two of us.”

I don’t pretend to know this man. I’d imagine only God himself knows this man. Like me, he could be running from a time or a place that made him the butt of society’s jokes. I, like him, could just be looking for friendship in a world overtaken by shallow or pointless relationships.

I may have vicariously taken the life of a criminal, but I used to teach young minds how to decipher the words of some of the most distinguished poets and authors of all time. I used to impart the greatest of knowledge to our youth, that of our spoken language. It’s how we communicate with each other. It’s how we learn about each other. It’s how we grow and be better people. Surely that evens the score.

What my friend here has done in the past, should not be of consequence to me. And as far as I’m concerned, the less he shares, the better. I’ve never really had fleeting sexual encounters like this – where it was mutually desired and no money changed hands. In fact, of the three times someone intentionally flirted with me, only one ended with a successful sexual experience, and I ended up marrying her.

I’ve never claimed to be a good man. I make poor choices just like everyone and I admit that. I was a terrible husband and I chose a terrible wife, and I paid the price with my own dignity. I’ve lied to my employers and my family, and now I’m alone. Whatever forced Sin into this life had to have been tragic, and while I don’t want to know, I can honestly say that I feel the depths of his wounds every time he touches me.

His eyes are cutting into me again, but the fire is all but out. The heat of his gaze has strayed from his eyes and has found its way into his skin, flowing through his hands now wrapped around my back. Our bodies aren’t damp from sopping clothes and hasty showers, but from the breaths and body heat that gather around us. I’m starting to get light-headed again, so I close my eyes and try to breathe away the anxiety building between what I want and what I’m allowed to have.

“Bright lights that never go out on the Strip, and late-night martinis with Peter Lawford at the Sands." His soft, mumbling voice sounds tired though content. "I used to get kicked out of casinos, but never the Sands. Lawford enjoyed my company too much to let that happen. Found out we had the same tutor in France when we were boys, and that bastard never forgot me.”

I open my eyes and inhale sharply as he draws me to his chest. “Why are you telling me all this?” I wonder.

“I thought sharing my ability to count cards would be more interesting to you than the prison you keep building in your head.”

“I don’t think I should find you interesting,” I say, because I know it’s safer that way.

“And why’s that?”

“Interest leads to questions, and then inevitably answers. Answers reveal secrets, and I’m not the best at keeping other people’s secrets. I mean, I can keep them … but it’s painful – physically.”

He cocks his eyebrow, because what I just revealed is total nonsense to this man, and now I look insane. “Maybe you're right. Anonymity has its advantages, but what makes you think I have secrets?” he says, baring his teeth in a smug grin.

Well, I hadn’t thought of that scenario. Maybe he murders people with his buddies all the time. Maybe I'm overreacting to the butcher shop that just opened in my bathroom.

“I could be wrong, I guess. Christ, it wouldn’t be the first time,” I snicker. Then I hear his deep voice chuckle back, and I can’t take it anymore. My guts feel like they’re spilling between us on the bed. My head is cloudy and thick from a lack of sleep, and I can’t take the ache of loneliness any longer, so I look in his eyes and I make up my mind.

I haven’t willfully kissed anyone since my wedding day and it’s probably obvious as hell. But something about his hungry tongue and wandering hands tell me he doesn’t really care about any of that. He grips the back of my head and I’m forced harder against his mouth. He doesn’t kiss me back, though – he consumes me, and in the brief moments that we pull away to breathe, I find myself on top of his naked body, pulled there at his insistence.

After a whirlwind of wrongdoings, here I am, letting this asshole chew on my ear and scratch up my back in a dirty motel with a dismembered body chilling in the next room. If that realization doesn’t soften my cock, then I think I tossed my last moral fiber in the shallow grave we just dug together in the woods.

I don’t even want to have sex with him. I just want to lie there and be warmed by his skin under mine because I haven’t felt that kind of heat in years. He lets me, too, so I take this time to explore every inch I can find. He has scars and bruises in odd places, like around his neck and down his ribs. He has rope burns on his palms, and his left forearm is scarred all to hell with nicks across his skin. The more I kiss his neck and face, the more obvious his once-broken nose becomes. His eyelids are heavy, and he’s barely looking at me because he’s too focused on how much of my ass he can fit in his hands. His hands are bigger than I thought.

I don’t care about getting off. I just want to know his chest is moving and his heart is beating right here, where I am. I don’t care that all I can taste on his tongue are his Winstons. I don’t care about how many laws we broke, or lives we took in the last twenty-four hours, though I know I should. All I want to feel is what he feels, because it’s real, and potent, and addictive.

I barely notice his hips rocking under mine. I hardly feel his hand wrapped around my hard dick. If he were to ask me my name, I’d say  _Drabber_  or  _Red Rocket_  or some such bullshit. I’m just lost in this boundless sensation of being close to another person, and I finally realize what he keeps meaning when he talks about needing a friend out here on the road.

I do need someone deeper than Malachi Constant, the richest man in the world. I need more than theoretical flights to Mars, fictitious Titanic bluebirds, and greetings carried across half a million light years. 

I need a different perspective than the one that tells me humanity is comprised mostly of well-dressed monkeys with unrealistic expectations for the Gods they keep creating. I need my cynicism challenged, and to fully accept that life requires heat, time, and proper sustenance to survive and that this applies just as much to me as it does to him.

I need a second set of eyes to watch my back, and his fiery black ones fit the bill. I need another pair of hands to touch me while I fall asleep, because my life’s half-over already and it’s time for me to feel like more than just an ornery piece of shit.

I need another voice to converse with my inner monologue, and I need someone to hear me when I call for help. I need to be understood and accepted, gratuitous flaws and all, because I’ve never had that and I never knew how much I wanted it until he gave me a taste of respect.

He releases my mouth to bite my neck, and all I can hear are his panting groans in my ear. His loud, rhythmic huffs drown out the trucks, the crows, the compressor outside, and I’ve found a new, more pleasurable prison to feel trapped in – one of contentment and self-indulgence, and it feels like I’m feasting for the first time after forty long nights of suffering.

Every whimper releases pain and I think it’s his pain I hear escaping, but it’s not. I’m the one whimpering, and it’s my pain. He knows this and he hears it, and despite what I think I know about him, he holds me through that pain – not like a child or a blubbering idiot, but like an equal, or like I’m a part of him that he needs to protect.

He’s trying to make me feel good, which is a much more noble goal than my own. I’m trying not to cry like a baby. But if I’m anything, I’m a failure, and I fail at my goal as always. Now, he could laugh if he wants to. He could throw me off the bed and out of his room entirely for being such a pussy, but he doesn’t. He just takes me in his hand and rubs me until I come on his stomach like a horny teenager. I wish I could say I did the same for him, but I can’t. I fall asleep sixty seconds later, sticky and panting against his neck.

This won’t go down as the greatest love story ever told, but if God the pervert is watching, I’m certain he approves of this mess. I’m still one of his children, and after thirty-seven years of isolation, I’m finally feeling alive and like life, in all its fucked-up glory, might be more fulfilling without picket fences and religious circle jerks. I’m allowed to be selfish sometimes, even if my wants are self-destructive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you to [dandelionwishes70](https://dandelionwishes70.tumblr.com) on Tumblr for the lovely fanart I was gifted. Thank you so much!! <3
> 
> Art: [Rocket Man](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/1WsSbWYLbfBWP5-ElznQ9VBKTTfjmP6BoSBV7rksmM--1VgQ7tSTpjS_cUDTGL61os9eZQY_ApKqGnGmVjIlBs56khpdjV8bCr3wSMEFsqQtCA60hvGscAPd793PNBxNEBkrfH6b9-ard-POM8Vlj90cOcTfCVaiBbc0zTyFIJewFtcM4rM7mSLSCKzGjGnowLIbztAeW7zkTwqy0OJQPlI6dv4ninlU-b3g-3GZDugH-GnXOBogJgB_BpiuV0JuHhu4zfkyt34pJOwWG1rPcreF_1RjZLg_F36GE0hj8RlJQ7IfOmZ5aEsCX2-iG6DC93Fu5m_S-QtEYAhFRSZ8W28nJd8xZOzs6o5hmCkBQeX4pr-zkVS4egIHhtPWlKvjO4WmZHED9o4qs7BwjsKpEvaiPFtaEB8ueYo-WsJFB8DLJblnDMtPmiQWcLyCa_DZVlBC8PmHN1lpcL77rUuUF4J85w07ZJB5bxWbUwT0x5PFspxjZiSiPFRSAJCwr8LCODGAe4ys6v1YEqLwsgS0VVl7p-G_KgwqtJPBmgaoc1wXIlRV9YGMCOn16TsOmKuPJhrAFzVJUrn6ehfbZhRdI2U-GUfRxhyqvpCU2ugHqT3lA-zchDH8HRDyE3ZPLFZuL7u7f4KxqvlZmDVhVMBRgZtC9st0HC5U4A=w532-h753-no) by [dandelionwishes70](https://dandelionwishes70.tumblr.com/post/169470897077/a-little-drawing-inspired-by-joanielspeak)


	6. Sexy Time Traveler

I don’t use the word  _sexy_  to describe anything because I hate it. It feels smutty, and not in a provocative way. It just sounds trite. However, I’m hard-pressed to find a more appropriate word for what I’m staring at when I wake up after our impromptu murder-tryst.

I’m laying on my side. My head’s cradled in the crook of his shoulder, and my left hand’s thrown across his chest. I can feel the weight of his arm wrapped around me, and his fingers trail back and forth across my skin. A cigarette smolders from his lips, and he occasionally cracks the corner of his mouth and aims a plume of smoke up and away from my face. It wasn’t smoke, or a cough, or even his drifting fingers that woke me up. It was  _Sirens._  He’s resting the bloody spine on my arm and pages gently brush my skin as he reads.

I stare at his gruff-looking face, but I know he's not as rough around the edges as he seems. He has a few sharp corners – chiseled cheeks and a pronounced jaw, but the disconcerting parts of his face are his mouth and eyes.

When you look at most people, you can get a sense of their personality or composure from their lips. Do they turn up at the corners? Down? Are the always slightly parted or locked up tight? These little clues can tell you a person's intent, and I have spent my life studying them. What changes in a man before he attacks you? How can you tell who in a room is trustworthy and who has nefarious thoughts? 

Sin's mouth is dead flat and it gives him a sinister, unreadable look. His lips are always tight, paradoxically hiding a set of sharp but relaxed teeth. When he does open his mouth, he often bites his lower lip, flashing canines that look more appropriate for a carnivore.

His eyes are wily and just as cryptic, changing color as his mood strikes. Under the diner lights, they looked gold and flecked with copper. Out in the parking lot, they were as red as his bloody buck knife, but when his hands were exploring my body just a few hours ago, they were black, bottomless pits. 

The ability to see and decipher faces has helped me avoid a lot of pain, but it is a useless skill when a person's actions are counter-indicative of their expressions. When we were outside, he snarled and tacked me to the ground, growling through clenched teeth. His composure instantly dissolved when he violently ripped open my pants and shoved me toward the toilet. He hissed and threatened to tear the shirt off my back if I didn't listen to him. But minutes later, when I was about to fall, he caught me. When I was suffocating, he found me air. When I was blind, he cleared my eyes of the fog and he did so with tender hands and respect.

I remain motionless in his embrace, hoping my consciousness doesn’t break or disfigure this moment in time. There is nothing in our bathroom. There is nothing outside our door. We are in a box of our own making, sealed and safe, and the chaos of the world spins around us.

His flat lips occasionally curl into a smile as he reads, amused by humming aliens and secret messages. My inevitable sigh breaks this intoxicating scene and he looks down at me, closing the book against his chest.

“How far’d you travel?” I wonder.

“Not far. Just another quick trip through the chrono-synclastic infundibulum,” he says with a smile.

“When you say that, it sounds like a disease.”

“Isn’t it? It’s a disease of time and space.” He leans over me to toss his smoke in the ashtray by the phone and then rolls his body to face me, letting the bloody book fall between us.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep,” I say, but I don’t think he hears me. He’s pushing hair off my forehead and his eyes weave across my face like he’s scanning me, looking for inconsistencies in his memory.

“You look different,” he says.

“Well, it’s been a long time since I messed around with someone.”

“You mean by choice,” he says, and my body tenses. My little bubble of self-worth is about to burst, until he continues, “I can’t imagine you'd choose to sleep with your wife. You made her sound like a peach.”

“Yeah, well, she was,” I sigh. “Pretty as one, anyway. But rotten all the way through.”

“Why’d she leave?”

That’s a complicated story, and the truth is embarrassing as hell. “I guess she just stopped finding me attractive.”

His eyebrows raise and he slowly shakes his head. “I have a hard time believing that.”

“Please don’t call me cute,” I say, and even though I’m serious, he still snickers.

“I’d never do that,” he says, and all the sudden, I’m disappointed. Why would I say that? Why wouldn’t I want to know if someone likes the look of my face? What kind of idiot is so ashamed of himself that he can’t take a nice compliment from someone else?

He inches closer and compliments me with a physical gesture instead. Feeling someone’s hard cock against your leg is much more flattering than being called cute. It’s also far more direct.

“I think you look younger than I remember,” he says.

“I’ve immatured in the last ten hours.”

He nods and grins. “I think it’s your mouth. You should smile more.”

Should I? I grimace a lot, but I guess that’s not really a smile.

“There’s not much to be happy about," I say.

I realize quickly that this is the answer he was trying to coax from me, because he’s smirking and his hand is exploring my thigh. I intentionally don’t smile, but when his fingers worm between my legs and he grabs a handful of my ass, I giggle like a damn schoolgirl, which is great when you’re trying to maintain a dignified composure.

I know my cheeks are reddening, they always do, so he takes my mouth in his to shield me from my own embarrassment. I’m left chewing on his lips and admiring how multifaceted this man is. He can haul, butcher, and bury a body, which I never thought I'd appreciate in another person. He commands a dangerous hellhound with clicks and whistles. He can control a wildcard like me and still make me feel like a teenager, wide-eyed and passionate again, all the while remaining restrained and collected. He’s a goddamn maverick.

His hands start drifting again as he bites me back. He’s enamored with my stomach all of the sudden, tracing his fingers across my belly like a Buck knife. Even though I only feel the pressure of his fingertips, it still seems hauntingly penetrative. With each stroke, he hovers his hand over my cock, teasing me. He’s getting even with me for hanging him out to dry so I could take a nap earlier.

This world of tactile emotions and lust-filled friendship feels so foreign and exciting to me that I can’t bear the thought of ever leaving it. This shitty motel room with a dirty mattress is nothing short of Eden.

He rolls me to my back and I’m transported to the soft ground of a darkened forest, his bloody hand pressed against my mouth. I suddenly feel helpless and shaken, but invulnerable to pain. His weight drops on top of me and it empties my lungs into his mouth. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was enjoying these acts of stealing little pieces of me. He’s playing with me like a deck of cards, and I’d stop him if it didn’t feel so damn good to be used.

I want to taste more of him, so I chew along his scruffy jaw until I reach his ear. I swear to God, it makes his eyes roll back, feeding my newly-emerging sense of entitlement. I can make this red-blooded enigma moan and thrust himself against me, and now I want to mark him as mine lest he stray too far from my life or my body. He has an unusual preoccupation with teeth anyway, but I’m not complaining. I like it when he bites me. It feels dirty, like these sordid deeds are feeding some deep-seated hunger that neither of us has fed in years.

I’ve never been so conflicted about making another man come. I normally want it all over quickly so we can get dressed and move on, but with him I want it to last as long as possible. I want to make him ache and swear and curse against my throat. I want him to be in utter misery right up to the very end, and since sadism seems to be his preference, there's no reason it can't be mine, too.

He’s getting close, and his nails dig into my hips, pulling me off the bed. He’s grinding himself into me, and I clench my eyes. I can’t come first again. That feels too damn rude.

Then he leans back to my ear and says, “Use your hand,” and I practically fall apart at hearing him tell me what he wants from me. I like that kind of structure. I like knowing what to do and when to do it. I don’t like leaving things to chance or going with the flow. It’s too haphazard and stressful to live your life blind and ignorant of which direction you’re supposed to travel.

When I realize I have yet to comply, I fumble between our bodies and grab him. He wants my hand, but I’d give him my damn mouth if he asked for it. Hell, he could have all of me, but that’s not what he wants, at least not right now.

I start jerking him, but his dick’s so close to mine, I can’t stop myself from rubbing him against me. I’ve never been able to get so hard so fast, and I just want to let that pent-up frustration spill all over my stomach and his.

He looks down between our bodies, and I get a face-full of his gray-blond hair. He wants to watch my hand stroking us together and that fact almost does it for me. He groans after every quick inhale, and it’s the most seductive sound I’ve ever heard. Hell, I’d do anything to hear that all damn day.

My nails scratch down his back until he flinches, and it feels so good that I want to say his name. I want him to hear me say it, but I have no idea what it is. No one should call out Cold Eggs when you’re about to come all over another person, but Sin Man does feel eerily appropriate.

 _Sin_  barely hisses over my tongue, but it’s too late. He huffs out a deep moan and a second later I’m covered in his cum – a veritable gluttonous baptism by Satan himself.

Sometime in that whole mess, I came too, but neither of us cares. He lays down on top of me and we both catch our breath. I keep tasting him, licking his skin and biting his ear, and he’s laughing while I go at him like a rabid dog. Then, as Sin would have it, reality crushes my little Eden.

“If the tub weren’t full of ice," he says, "I think I’d drag you back to the shower."

Why did he have to bring up the dismembered corpse in the tub? I was blissfully enjoying his huge cock on my stomach and the sticky, bitter smell of sex, and now all I can think about is the bloody ice melting in the bathroom.

“That would’ve been nice,” I sigh. And we are a mess too. We have no soap, no towels, and now no shower to use. Anxiety had been hanging out in the distance, circling us like a vulture until this very moment when it could peck out my eyes while I’m vulnerable.

I shiver and instinctively reach to the nightstand, pawing at it so forcefully that I knock the phone receiver off the cradle.

He lifts his head, confused by my groping. “What are you looking for?”

“My glasses. Where the hell are my glasses?”

He hesitates and his face sort of apologetically grimaces. “The toilet,” he says.

“What about the toilet?”

“When you were passing out, they fell into the toilet.”

“Did you get them out?!”

“Was I supposed to? I was a little preoccupied with keeping you from busting your teeth out on the damn thing.” He pauses, and I watch him flinch before he finally offers some help. “Do you want me to get them?”

“You will gut a human being, but you won’t reach into a toilet?”

“Do you want me to get them?” he asks again. “I will, but you have to ask me.”

“Will I owe you another favor?”

“I think that’s fair,” he says.

Yeah, screw that.

I shove him off me and sit up on the edge of the bed. He's laughing to himself so I leave him to his childish hilarity while I go fishing for my glasses.

They were in the toilet – the toilet of a pay-by-the-hour motel – so I rinse them off and am forced to slide them on my face, still wet. I avoid looking in the tub because the butcher shop image from earlier this morning is more than enough to tide me over.

When I return to the bedroom, he’s still naked and smoking a cigarette, his mind back to rediscovering Sirens on the twisted sheets of the bed. In other words, he looks sexy as hell.

I pretend to busy myself with our damp clothes draped around the room, but I’m looking for different vantage points. He’s built like an ox: broad shoulders, a strong back, and thick thighs good for balance and speed.  The hair on his chest and belly is matted with cum and even though he spent most of the night digging a hole out back and is now laying in this appalling dump heap of a motel, he still looks shamelessly suave.

The book's the only thing on his mind, other than the cigarette he's blowing, and I have to wonder what could make a man so cavalier about the detestable situation we find ourselves in.  I should be losing my goddamn mind. I should be running. I should be looking down at my own hairless chest and wondering what the hell he even sees in me, but I'm not. His composure is quite inspiring if not a little off-putting.

His eyes are still focused on the book when he blurts, “I’m hungry.”

“Tub’s full of food.” I don’t know why I say it. I immediately go white as he slowly looks up at me. I want to die. Why did I say that?!

He returns to the book, thankfully dismissing my ghostly appearance. “I was thinking something hot,” he says.

“Hot, yeah, that sounds good. Diner?”

He nods and gets up, and we both attempt to wrench on our damp clothes. My tee shirt’s too blood-stained to wear alone, and my flannel’s still cold and soaked. I must be making a hell of a face at the prospect of having to wear the damn thing, because a gray shirt lands against my face.

“It’s dry,” he says. “I used yours to get the ice, that’s why it’s still wet.”

“I’m not going to wear your shirt,” I say.

“Your choice.” He pulls on his white tee shirt, which somehow looks pristine despite last night’s adventure and heads to the bathroom.

The door clicks and I’m alone, staring at his shirt. I shouldn’t wear it. It probably doesn’t even fit me, but it is dry. No, I can’t.

I slip my arms in my wet shirt and sit down on the bed. He joins me a minute later and we both stare off into space gathering the strength needed to continue this potentially embarrassing exchange.

“So where are you headed?” he asks me.

He asked me this once, and I refused to answer. That was before I'd watched him kill someone, before I'd stripped and he washed the blood off me, before we'd come all over each other's stomachs …

“I got a load to deliver to Chicago and then back to Detroit.”

“You must love 80,” he says, smiling.

“I’m well acquainted with it, yeah. I only deviate when absolutely necessary." I forgot about this part of our conversation. We’re about to part ways. "And where are you off to?”

“Missoula,” he mumbles, pulling on his boots.

I grin like an idiot because I’ve always wanted to go to Montana. “It’s a fly fishing mecca up there,” I say, and then the map in my head expands. The vastness of two-thousand miles of America spread between us makes my heart ache at the dizzying prospect. “What are you …,” I begin, nodding to the bathroom. “I mean, what do we do about the tub?”

“I’ll grab my truck and take care of that. Why don’t you go up to the diner and order us some grub.”

Now that sounds like one hell of a plan to me. An easy to execute, direct order to put hot food in my empty belly with a man I just fooled around with. The tub will get taken care of, my mugger will go unmissed, and life will start to regain its footing again.

This is starting to bring back those feelings of paradise again, as long as I don’t think too hard about how I’m going to feel when I’m finally falling asleep alone somewhere near Des Moines.

He must’ve seen my face go slack as the loneliness envelopes me, because he leans over and kisses me like he’s never going to see me again. His hand wraps around the back of my neck, forcing me into his mouth, and he’s back at it: chewing like he’s never tasted anything so sweet. I have to say, I sort of feel the same.

His other hand snakes under my wet shirt and strums back down my ribs. “You’re starving,” he says when he finally pulls away, “Why don’t you take off, Rocket Man.”

I huff against his cheek and listen to him inhale a long, deep breath along my neck. We stay like that for a while because I really don’t want to leave, even though I know the next task is to enjoy a nice breakfast together. I’ve always had a bad habit of letting the inevitable future ruin the happy present.

I finally lean away and stand, grab my book, and turn back to him as I open the door, letting Garm rush past my feet. “Any requests?”

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

The best damn answer ever. Easy as pie. We should probably have pie. I think I’ll order us pie.

It’s mid-morning and the air outside is clear and damp. It must’ve rained while we were distracted by more interesting things. I hike up the road and listen to the sweet chime of bells as I open the diner’s door.

Familiarity brings peace of mind, so I slide into the same booth we sat in yesterday. The chipper waitress flips over my coffee cup and fills it as I take in this glorious morning. I happily flip over the second cup and she fills it, too. The diner smells like bacon and fresh coffee, and the patrons are all happy and laughing like today is the dawn of a new age of peace on earth, and I think they might just be right.

“What can I get you?” she asks.

“Darlin', can I get two pieces of whatever pie you have up there, and two of your specials is this morning? And I need a big steak – thick and rare. Just wrap the steak up in a bag for me.”

She nods as she writes. “That it?”

“Oh, and can you make sure the eggs are nice and hot?”

“Our eggs are always hot, hun,” she says with a wink.

Damn, this is heaven on earth. I’m going to miss Boulder, Colorado. My fingers are habitually twisting something in my lap, so I look down and realize his shirt is laying across my legs. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it still in my hand. It’s dark grey and the cuffs are muddy and damp. The fabric is heavier than my cheap clothes and it actually has all the buttons down the front. Even from this distance, I can smell a damp earthiness emanating from it. It smells like a grave. It smells like a very specific grave.

I shake off that feeling of doom and try to stay positive.

If there was a list of ultra-masculine endeavors one could undertake to become more virile and aggressive, it would include: starting a fight, ending a fight, and getting laid. In essence, the list would require you to royally fuck up people in whatever way you could. I’m proud to cross all those tasks off my list, having finally fought back against the world, cutting my teeth on a long, lust-filled night of revenge.

Forty-eight hours ago, I’m not sure I would’ve been proud. I’ve never felt comfortable with the idea of men taking the lives of other men. We have no right to play judge, jury, and executioner; but in some cases, I suppose it’s a necessary evil. How many more people would've fallen victim to the mugger if he were still alive and left to hunt? Would his assaults have ended with me or some kid? Would he have robbed and raped up that hooker he was flirting with? I guess I can’t know for sure, but statistics don’t lie. Guys like my bald attacker have recidivism written in big black letters across their foreheads.

My eyes drift out the window and I stare down the road at the woods behind the motel. He’s still back there, probably in a muddy pit now. I can hear my own heart pulsing in my head. It’s loud and distracting, and my breath quickens. He’s back there and he knows what we did. I dug a grave and I buried a man with my own two hands.

My gaze is severed by a logging truck passing between the diner and the motel down the hill. It pulls across the road and parks in the back. Out hops Sin and Garm, and I realize I had no idea what he hauled. His comment about the axe makes a little more sense now, though the thought is still morbid.

My breath and heart rate slow again as I watch him dig around in his truck. Garm bolts off into the woods and then explores the parking lot, weaving behind the dumpsters and pissing in the grass. I feel so intimately connected to them both now. It’s like watching the subject of a painting you walk by every single day suddenly begin to move. I’m seeing these beings in a new light and I can’t tear my eyes away.

As I watch him throw her a stick, three police cruisers roll into the lot, and my heart stops. They park back by the woods, and the girl I met at the counter the night before jogs out to meet them by the tree line. Sin is by his truck, now crouching at a tire, adamantly watching the scene unfold thirty yards from him. He’s a fox staring down a half dozen wolves prowling around his den.

The six officers start tramping into the woods with the girl. Sin stands and whistles and Garm races back to him, leaping into the cab. He follows her, but as he slams his door, a cop rushes over and waves him back out.

I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I can’t tear my eyes away for an entirely different reason. This is my fault. This is the end of him, and I’m watching it all unravel.

“Here ya go, hun.”

Four plates of food slide across the table, but I can’t eat. I have to get the hell out of here. I grab my book and push past her, bounding towards the door. I throw it open and flee to my truck, still parked behind the building. I can’t stay. I can’t be here when all this shit goes down. I am a coward – a mangy cur who doesn’t deserve any of the elation that man gave me. I’m a sell-out. I’m a rat. I’m a goddamn Judas.

I pull out on the road and slowly drive past the motel. I don’t know what to do. My world is crumbling. Sin’s backed up to his truck, cornered by three officers grilling him with questions. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t even glance up to my truck. He just briefly holds up his hands and flashes seven fingers. The cops don’t even notice, they’re just pointing at the woods and the motel behind them.

Now, I could think that gesture means nothing – maybe it was a nervous tick. As a card player, he could be superstitious like my old man and think numbers have secret powers. Seven might just be Sin’s lucky number … but I have two routes I could drive to Chicago, and I’m taking I-70 just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commissioned artwork by [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com) on Tumblr below. Thank you, Toni! I love it! <3
> 
> Art: [Sexy Time Travler](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/gN8Pg0FTUSq4kMoaMfsCrqBocUtTooLi2ry3F5xdcZx6qrfsolAsVglR4XXL9VaLUbcazcrO_0ONK06-6kCuSDjSAVzNKjb2hVZXznTQ5RCRxm6zYGSaw6eUftC8_jGJ-NoQhSjmqRHVDmltM3nKzKXgjRo_xDoC4UhB-UP_C_nEMCSqfXC-7aBTpO5F0rawN1joO6y1xoiPw_IoLerONlf0XUce8yWWRd3QQnT5Cj8Ag-Pa9TSi8nVN0UnrmCGZBfo-wXL7M1iyZlS46NxeQflGkqyj9F1Ey25WIViHGuKrbEQ1yxwrOjD6CIOIrNNcbcJF6I-kdEkmkvz9Xe7eh9ehkHit0Y8nWkWPppFzNKVb19XP3kdkUAcY6tTMRlh3REirDn891sVxvuRpPPCtuijw_oybsa34MTzGdl_jB_4PNiSstpujdA7c0J0i4ABXyB_so1GbgoVd2lJjULJJIBUrSYaVwr5KZetUA3krvKCCHBcgXHGVnMl0nA0_IznR7VpsoK7npeMmuXTudDhDpr12v46wrRnIiYH31_dYbbp5CQCMYEY9lOCEp2pI9jzWeefA7bDCHjXMbDlItpE3DiwgopgZSKOi4j0T6x3LL0FSSyfmaLKgGLZQvSzQEV5QHpD1hhM779RoUcIZ0hnmt3ffD3DPT8Oh6Q=w899-h579-no) by [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com/post/166487402462/unhitched-ch-6-sexy-time-traveler-for)


	7. Tom Selleck is the Butcher of Boulder

My least favorite part of life is its unpredictability. One minute you’re a happy-go-lucky twenty-year-old college student with all the prospects of landing your dream job as a professor of English Literature, and the next minute you stupidly decide to head home for the weekend, and you’re nearly killed in a car crash. You make a single bad decision and you suddenly lose your promise, your internship, and barely pass your senior year.

One minute you’re twenty-three and flirting with a beautiful woman who makes you laugh and come in a bowling alley bathroom, and the next you’re divorcing her because you both stopped laughing and coming nine years ago.

One minute you’re thirty-seven and banging a guy who helped you regain a modicum of dignity, and the next you’re fleeing the scene of a murder without the guy’s name or a clue as to where to go next. Life is a shit storm, and if you aren’t careful, you’ll be swept out with the sewer before you can even smell it coming.

I’ve been driving for nine hours straight without even stopping to piss, and though all the signs say Kansas City, I’m more lost than I’ve ever been. Do I stop? Do I keep going to Chicago? What happened to him? I can’t believe I never asked him his name.

I’d had a long list of questions waiting for him if he’d ever made it to the diner: Where were you born? What were your plans for the stuff in the tub? Do you really know Peter Lawford? Where did you really find Garm?

I can’t believe I never got his goddamn name.

I’m so afraid of what happens next, and I hate that the fear of prison is outweighing everything else. It’s so selfish considering neither of us would be in this mess if I hadn’t tipped that first domino in the parking lot. I should have gone straight to my room and let that bastard have his way with the hooker. I should have locked the door and read until I passed out in my misery. I should have been able to control myself better than that. I'm slipping again.

I could have stayed hidden in that room with the door locked and barricaded, but what would that have gotten me? I would've had to listen to my mugger bend that hooker over his bed while he nailed her. I would have been kept awake by the wretches of the drunkard next door and the tries of the vans that peeled out at two a.m.

Beyond that, I'd have forgone an evening of much-needed wallowing with a fellow miscreant. I would have missed his red-flecked eyes undressing me. I'd have given up his shaggy, graying beard pressing against my neck as I fell asleep.

That emptiness in my gut and chest returns, and I can’t keep driving. I pull off at the first sign of civilization beyond Kansas City and park at a truck stop. I have a choice between choking down some food or falling asleep, and my gritty eyes are winning.

I fall out of my cab and grab a motel key, rattling open yet another room three. A lamp's been left on for me, and the place doesn't reek of smoke and mold. The tub isn't full of ice or flesh. Its windows aren't cracked or streaked with greasy fingerprints. It's cool and clean and yet a far cry from the flophouse Eden I left in Boulder.

Before God or the Devil comes knocking, I draw the shades, kill the light, and collapse like a dead man on the faded yellow bedspread. If I wake up in the morning, it was meant to be. If I don't, so be it.

* * *

I open my eyes when I hear John Lennon drawing me back from the sharp edge of oblivion. Not the man himself, mind you, just his soft, expressive voice. The alarm clock on the radio by the bed had been set to five-fifteen, and he's singing when I roll over.

I know how pathetic I look. I’m crying in a damn motel room and staring at the water-stained ceiling feeling sorry for myself. I’m wearing Sin’s shirt for God’s sake; I'm not a blind fool.

Treachery comes in many forms – abandonment, betrayal, and thievery among them – and that water stain is starting to look an awful lot like Jesus.

Someone upstairs is pissed; that’s the only explanation. You can’t just kill people without repercussions; I know that more than anyone. Maybe my dad was right and some witch doctor, pissed that I ate one of his Haitian Voodoo bananas is getting his revenge.

If I squint I might be able to get that Jesus to look like Lennon instead. Hell, I don’t even think I need to squint.

I sit up and am almost floored again by exhaustion. I’m so weak I can barely stand, but I make it to the bathroom anyway, and low and behold, there are towels in this place. I strip and turn on the shower, hoping the scalding water will rid me of the filth of the last few days, if not the guilt over what I’ve done.

I’m conflicted, however, with letting the water wash away all my sins. It feels like a betrayal. I earned the dirt under my nails and my bloody knuckles. I fought and regained myself that night. I confronted malevolence and I finally won.

I battled a different enemy that morning as well – a very personal foe which has haunted me for years. It scratched down my back and bit my ear, and sent disgraceful images through my mind. I didn’t win that battle, but I can’t say I lost either. I have been trying to deny that demon’s wants since I can remember, but I’ve refused to call it by its name.

I don’t want to smell like cheap motel soap. I want to smell like earth. I want to smell like blood. And more than anything, I want to smell like him.

It’s too late to stop the water, though, and as the last flecks of dirt spiral down the drain, my composure goes right along with it. I’ve felt agony before. I’ve felt hopeless and tormented. I’ve been beaten and violated and spit upon, but I’ve never felt like this. I’ve finally tasted something important – something worthwhile, though staggering – but before I could swallow, it was yanked from my mouth like a rusty hook.

This is the part of chosen isolation that hurts the most. I have to cry alone. I have to weep by myself on the floor. I have to let my heart break and feel that devastation permeate my flesh like a frozen wind.

But I can’t just curl up and die. I’m not allowed to do that. I have to maintain just enough fortitude to stitch myself back up and carry on. It is delicate. It is difficult. But it can be done.

When you’re alone, you simply have no options. You have no one to talk to, no friends to call on, no family to support you. Even when I was emotionally alone with my disinterested wife, at least she was there. She may not have come home every night, but she was there enough to remind me that I had an obligation to keep going. I have to keep going because the bad guys don’t always get to win. You don’t have to lie down and die when you’ve been smashed and broken on the floor. If you're floundering to fix yourself, just wait. Someone’s bound to find you and care enough to put you back together again. If you are patient, the world will deliver; Sin was right about that, and he tried his best to deliver to me an opportunity to set right a nasty wrong. It's just unfortunate that my world doesn't work like that.

* * *

I’m freezing and numb when I wake up again, and for a blissful second, I think I’m back in Colorado. Any moment, a half-dressed Sin Man's going to push open the door and tell me to get the hell up because we've got work to do. We've got a blown tire and a dog that needs to be scratched behind the ears, and oh yeah, omelets are waiting for me across the street.

I hadn’t gotten dressed before I collapsed, so I’m still damp and laying on the bathroom floor, peering into my little motel room. It’s a bright yellow and pale blue window peeking back into 1955.

The lack of sun on the floor means it must be mid-afternoon by now. I can’t lay here forever, though that prospect is enticing.  _Naked Man Found Dead in Motel Bathroom, Soaked in Own Tears_ is what the paper would read tomorrow. Though attention-grabbing, that sounds too far-fetched. _Cleaning Lady Has Mild Fit When Dead Man Ruins Her Afternoon._ That's at least believable.

As exciting as that headline sounds, the humiliation of it being a possibility forces me to peel myself off the white tiles and dry off. I eventually crawl to my pile of filthy clothes and pull on my jeans.

Though Sin’s gray shirt is too big for my scrawny ass, I put it back on anyway and roll up the sleeves. I don’t know how he can stand such a heavy shirt in this summer heat, but for now, it’s a comforting weight on my back.

There is a standard routine I follow in a new motel room. Like everyone, I open doors, peek in drawers, check under the bed, and flip through sheets. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve found under supposedly fresh sheets.

My ritual always ends the same way. I toss up and let fall the ever-present Gideon Bible. I do it a couple times and check the pages, wondering where it opens. I’m not a God-fearing man, but I am a curious one, and I like to know where the spine’s been cracked the most.

I find the good book and toss it three times, and it opens at the same spot: the very first page of The Book of Job. Go figure.

My stomach suddenly growls and it’s as agonizing as it is loud. It’s cannibalizing itself by now. I know there's a place to eat outside, so I clear my mind, decide what needs to happen to fix this situation, and head out of my room in search of food.

It’s not far down the road that I find exactly what I’m looking for: a small mom and pop place with a big coffee cup in the window. The guy at the grill waves me to the counter, so I sit and stare at the specials, each one less appetizing than the last: two eggs on top of a steak, a cold egg salad sandwich with a side of sliced tomatoes, and goddamn liver and onions. My stomach churns and I scan the place for the bathroom, just in case.

The cook scowls as he looks over my face. “You okay, man? You look kinda green.”

“I’m just not feeling well.”

“If yer hungry, we got what ails ya.”

“I’m not sure I’m hungry, but I could use some coffee.”

“We got pie to go with that coffee.”

I don’t want any pie! Why does everyone in the goddamn country think coffee can only be served with pie?

I take a deep breath and grit my teeth. “No pie. I’m good.”

“I’m not gonna lie to ya man, you look like death warmed up. You need something hot – ”

“Please don’t.” If he says  _hot eggs,_ I’m hiking back to my truck and coming back with my gun.

“Flapjacks,” he says. “You needs a big ol’ stack with some butter and syrup. That’ll fix you up right .”

That doesn’t sound too bad actually. No eggs. No meat. Just breakfast for lunch. I nod, and he gets this proud smirk and starts pouring batter on the griddle. It spreads with a sizzle that sounds as delicious as it smells – warm, sweet vanilla with a touch of sourdough. He drops a pitcher of syrup in front of me and fills up my coffee cup.

“So you’re from Dallas?” he guesses.

“Nope.”

“You’re right. Not Texas, but south, I can tell.”

He can’t tell. I don’t speak with a southern drawl anymore, or at least I don’t think I do.

“You know what you sound like? Like you’re hiding the fact that you’re from the bayou.”

Goddamn it. I went to college in Maryland for God's sake.

I exhale a deep,  _southern_ sigh apparently, and admit, “Born and raised.”

He grins like an idiot. “I knew it. You a long-hauler?”

I’m not really comfortable sharing any personal information now. It’s all going to bite me in the ass if I do.

“No, I’m just passing through. I have family in Omaha.” A good, solid, unverifiable lie.

“No shit, I’m from Omaha. Where you headed?”

Cock-sucking son of a bitch. “Actually, some family just moved there. I’m helping them set up their new house.”

He nods and says, “Gotcha,” with a wink before heading back to the griddle.

Why do I stick out like a sore thumb? Why can’t I just blend in like a normal person? It’s like I have a billboard strapped to my ass covered in flashing lights and  _Playboys._

He slides a stack of flapjacks to me, and my stomach starts aching to taste them. After the last few days, I could use a little comfort in the form of pan-fried cake. I slather them in syrup and take a huge bite, letting this sweet ambrosia melt over my tongue. This is good. I can handle this. Another full night of sleep and I think I can get back on the road, that is, if that’s where I’m supposed to be.

The cook wanders back over and refills my coffee without a word.

“Can I ask you something?” I wonder. He smiles and nods so I continue, “Anything around here have to do with the number seven? A route, a building, anything?”

He narrows his eyes as he thinks. “No route 7 s around here, unless you’re thinking 70.”

“What about city nicknames, or streets, or small towns?”

“I think they call Flagstaff the  _City of Seven Wonders_ or something along those lines. It’s got the Grand Canyon and … I guess six other wonders,” he chuckles.

“No, that’s too far away.”

“Oh, there’s a Seven Devils, North Carolina, but that’s a haul.”

I nod. “That’s actually  _exactly_ the kind of info I was looking for. Thank you.”

“Kind of the wrong direction for you, though, since you’re going to Omaha.” He winks again, only this time it’s overly exaggerated.

I scowl, and he laughs and returns to his grill. Seven Devils sounds about right to me. It would be an ironic place for a devil to hang his hat in faux secrecy. But I don’t want to make any wild assumptions. It’s just a stupid idea from a random cook. I don’t know what Sin was thinking. For all I know, he could have meant seven days, and I should be laying low right now.

The door behind me chimes and I hear, “Hey look, it’s The Butcher of Boulder!”

I choke on my coffee and turn to look at three teenagers filing into the diner and staring at me.

There’s pancake still in my mouth and it won’t go down, so I have to mutter, “What did you just call me?”

“Chill man, everyone’s The Butcher,” he laughs. The three slide into a booth behind my stool and one of the boys pulls out a piece of paper from his back pocket and hands it to me.

“The Boulder pigs are giving them to everyone. They’re at all the stops on 80,” he snickers. “We just came down from Omaha. They found a dead guy in Boulder yesterday.”

What the hell’s he talking about? He handed me a crude sketch of a man with glasses and a mustache. “Why are the police looking for Tom Selleck?” I say, and the kids laugh. Then I realize I’m looking at a shitty portrait of me.

“They keep saying  _brown hair, brown eyes, glasses_ … but who the hell doesn’t look like that?” says the girl. “I mean, I don’t even think he’s the guy. They had a report on last night. The bimbo at that motel looked like an airhead. Her brother kept saying the killer was an old guy with gray hair.”

My eyes aren’t brown, and he’s not that old … “What, uh, what are you talking about?” I ask, spinning on my seat.

“The Butcher!” she squawks. “Someone killed a guy in a motel in Boulder. Stole the kidneys right out of his body! They’re calling him The Butcher of Boulder.”

One of the boys grimaces. “He left the guy in a tub of ice,” he says.

“No he didn’t,” snaps the other one, “The body wasn’t in the tub, just the kidneys.”

There seems to be some confusion. Sin must not have been able to get back inside the motel room. And if they’re still looking for the murderer, they didn’t arrest him either. I unwittingly smile, even though I’m staring at my own wanted poster.

The girl is shaking her head. “That’s not what I heard, and my cousin works at the Denver sheriff’s station. He said some maniac stole this guys organs and left him in a tub of ice at a whorehouse.”

“So wait, the guy’s still alive?” asks the boy.

I swear to God, in another life I’d better become a cop. These incompetent pigs don’t know what the hell they’re doing, and they’re spreading misinformation to the good people of Colorado. How is anyone supposed to stay safe and well-informed if the Barney Fifes of Boulder keep spreading rumors? And I do understand the irony of what I just said, considering I’m the damn murderer they're looking for – but my anger is still justified.

“I bet he was going to sell the organs,” says the other boy.

Sell the organs? I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe Sin was going to sell them. That makes so much more sense! I banged a guy trying to  _save_ people, not eat them! He’s just a black market organ harvester!

That’s not actually that much better, and I’m starting to feel sick again.

“So do the cops have any leads?” I ask, forcing another bite of food into my mouth.

“Just the sketch. Someone at the diner across from the motel told the pigs she thought he was from Detroit, or going to Detroit, or something like that. He has a big box truck.”

So Sin did mean I-70. He knew 80 was going to be swarmed with cops going to Detroit. Was he really trying to protect me? God, I hope so. But does that mean he intends to see me again or was this just one of his friendly gestures? I bet he’s long gone, fishing or hunting in Missoula.

There’s a bigger problem, though. They know what I and my rig look like. I can’t roll back into Detroit now. Hell, I shouldn’t even be this close to Michigan. Seven Devils is looking a lot more promising, but how much do the cops really know? They can’t have my name yet. So how could they have my route? If all this is bull and they have nothing on me, I’m going to be late making my delivery in Chicago for no reason. If that happens, I’m jobless and I have no goddamn money to fall back on. I practically gave everything I owned to my ex, and my wallet’s getting pretty light.

There is no winning this situation. Every scenario could lead to certain death one way or another. Prison, starvation … maybe I’ll die from exposure.

So now I’m left with two options: hock my ring – a short-term plan that will net me nothing, or try to get my payload to Chicago and hope no one is the wiser. That’s a pretty big risk.

Wasn’t the Rat Pack in a movie with the number seven? Yeah,  _Robin and the 7 Hoods_... Wait, wasn’t that set in Chicago? Damn it … lay low, Seven Devils, Chicago … fuck me in the ass. I have no idea what to do, so I spin the roulette wheel and wait.

Familiarity, unfortunately, is very comfortable, and as it clicks to a stop I suddenly know. I guess I’m headed to the Windy City after all. I hope to God I don’t live to regret it.


	8. Out of House and Home

Five hours northeast of Kansas City, my truck starts sympathizing with my plight. Somewhere in Illinois, she finally decides to break down on the side of the road. I’m already lost of mind, and now I get to be lost of body, too. I could’ve had her looked over and at least gotten an oil change in Kansas City, but that would have been logical and good thinking. I took a nap instead. My eyes don’t regret that choice, but the rest of me sure as hell does.

I tip up the hood, but I may as well be trying to read Japanese, so I lock her up and start walking to the next small town. I’m not even sure if I should be heading to Chicago, since my celebrity face is all over the major cities up here, and now my mug’s plastered all over the evening news, too. I was scheduled to be in Chicago two days ago, and now I’m off my log book. People are going to start looking for me, and sooner or later, they’ll start putting two and two together.

I come across a time-forgotten town, which seems as good a place an any to be deserted for the time being. It’s small, filthy, and forgettable. It’s not even a speck on a map. It’s perfect.

Down a side street, I see a shitty little restaurant, and since food and I aren’t on the greatest of terms, my stomach protests. My head needs coffee, though, so I head over anyway and find a table tucked in the back.

A dark-haired, fat woman in her forties gives me the list of specials, mostly consisting of "loose meat" sandwiches and hot dogs.

_Loose meat._

I don't know what that's supposed to mean. I’ve seen _loose meat,_ and it’s not pretty.

“Can I just get some flapjacks or something?”

She barks out an embarrassingly loud laugh. “Flapjacks? What does this look like, the wild west? We’ve got loose meat sandwiches and hot dogs, like I just said.”

“I don’t know what a loose meat sandwich is.”

“Well, _Flapjack,_ you’re about to find out,” she laughs.

Okay … I guess. "Can I get some coffee, too?”

“You mean _cowboy_ coffee?”

“What’s that?”

“Just a normal cuppa coffee, but I dump some old grounds in the bottom. You’ll like it.” She wanders away, and I couldn’t possibly be less excited about my lunch if it was crawling back up my throat.

It’s a fairly busy place, filled with mostly blue-collar workers grabbing a bite before heading back to their menial tasks in one of the many factories in these desolate areas of the state. A couple of the diners look like mechanics, judging by their greasy overalls, and I should probably ask where their garage is before they leave. I’m not great with talking to people I don’t know. I get nervous and overwhelmed, like each word out of my mouth is a whack to a hornet’s nest, and I’m standing there holding the bat like an idiot. I'll probably I’ll just follow them when they leave.

As I’m examining this cross-section of lower-middle-class America, a teenage boy rushes into the diner and throws himself into my booth. He immediately covers his face with his hands.

Clearly this kid’s confused because I have more than enough meddlesome new friends; I do not need another one. He’s still hiding under his hands when he slides down the back of the booth seat and cowers under his flannel button-up instead.

I lower my voice because he is obviously freaking out about something. “What are you doing?”

“Hiding.”

“From who?”

“Not who – what,” he corrects, sliding farther into the seat.

“Okay, from what then?”

“My girlfriend,” he says, and I chuckle.

“I know that feeling, buddy. Which one is she?”

“Dark curly hair, and she’s right outside. She’s the one that looks like a crazed feminist looking to castrate anyone who calls her a crazed feminist.”

That is an apt description because I can pick her out through the diner window. She looks pissed.

“You can hide under the table if you want,” I say. I was joking, but he drops to the seat and slithers under the table like a snake. The girl rips open the diner door and starts hollering that she’ll kill him when she finds him. I can only assume the “him” is the boy sitting on my feet, so I avoid her eyes. My waitress orders her out, and she stomps away.

“She’s gone,” I say under the table, and he carefully crawls back into the seat. “Is it that bad?”

“I don’t even know what I did. I feel like I'm always wrong.”

“Woman have vastly different standards than men. Right and wrong tend to be one big gray area. When life is that ambiguous, it’s hard to make one damn decision they’ll like,” I say.

My waitress finally sees the boy and shrieks, “Leave the customers alone!”

“He’s fine,” I say. He’s not hurting anyone, and I kinda see myself in this squirrelly bastard. After my last week, I could use the distraction of a seemingly normal, panicking kid. It reminds me that I’m not the only one who feels the weight of the world crushing their soul.

He relaxes back into the booth and picks at his fingernails. “You’re married,” he says, pointing at my ring.

“No. Not anymore.” I still don’t know why the hell I’m wearing it. It’s been almost a year. “This is just a habit now. I spent ten years with her, then she left me. I feel naked without the ring, though.”

“How bad was it?” he asks. “Marriage, I mean. I think I want to get married, but I don’t want it to end badly.”

“It’s the biggest commitment you’ll make, so you’d better be damn sure.”

He leans on the table and says, “See, that’s the thing though. I think I can do that. I think I want to be with the same person forever. It feels so stable and definite, you know? Like you don’t have to worry about anything anymore because you found the _one.”_

This poor bastard. “If you’re lucky enough to find _the one,_ I guess you deserve to be happy. But I spent ten years of my life with someone who wasn’t the one, and it was pretty damn rough.”

“When did you realize she wasn’t right for you?”

“The day I met her,” I snap.

He scoffs and smiles, and I can feel his spirit breaking a little. “What happened?”

“She called me Kevin while we were, uh … being intimate.” How the hell old is this kid? I don’t think I should be talking about this with him.

“You can say _having sex._ I’m not a virgin.”

I guess kids aren’t as innocent anymore. “Okay … so she called me Kevin,” I continue, “It didn’t really bother me until she kept doing it. It was when our wedding invitations went out … everyone kept asking her what happened to Kevin.”

His eyes kind of glaze over and he nods. “Yeah, that sounds … awful,” he says.

“But there were other things, too. Little things. She yelled at me constantly. Talked to me like a dog. She made up degrading nicknames for me. Made comments about my dick to strangers. She got such a kick out of making me look like an idiot.”

His face curls into a grimace. Yeah, buddy, we don’t all get to live in fairy tales.

“Can’t imagine what that feels like,” he says.

“Do you think you found _the one?”_

“Well I thought I had, but now I don’t know.”

I have to laugh. I feel like I’m looking into a mirror back in time. “But what do I know? I have one failed marriage under my belt and I still wear the damn ring like it’s a consolation prize. Tell me about her.”

He scoffs, but sits up straight like this is going to be some monumental task that requires cork boards covered in notes and maps to explain. “She’s … different,” he starts. “But in a good way. She’s the absolute opposite of me, but I think that’s why it works, you know? I feel comfortable around her when I don’t really feel comfortable around anyone.”

“It’s always good to feel safe with your spouse,” I say, but these are words I have yet to heed, myself.

He nods emphatically as he continues, “Safe. Yeah, that’s what it is. I feel safe with her. You know, most guys won’t talk about this stuff. You always have to be a macho man, right? Can’t have feelings.”

I lean over the table, pointing at him like some pissed off cop. “That’s bullshit and don’t you believe it,” I snap, “Don’t let people push you around. You don’t have to be macho to get respect.” I may have been a bit aggressive, because he leans back in his seat, stiff and worried. “I mean, being a man comes in all forms,” I clarify, “You don’t have to be macho or a kiss-ass to get respect. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind …," he says with a nervous laugh, "But this girl, I think she’s different … She’s strong, but she’s smart and funny, too. She doesn’t take shit from anyone. And when I’m around her, I think I want to be a better person, you know? She makes me want to stand up for myself. And she wants me to go to college.”

“Now that girl has a good head. You should listen to her,” I say, and he should. My life would have been _far_ more angelic if my wife had supported me enough to let me go back to school. I wanted to get my masters, but she was more worried about my immediate earning potential. I was just a damn meal ticket to her, which was one of many reasons I grew to resent the whore. The actual whoring being another matter.

“Yeah, I think I will apply. There’s just one problem though …”

“And what’s that?” I wonder.

He leans over the table and motions for me to come closer, so I lean in to hear this unutterable secret about his seemingly perfect mate. “She scares the shit out of me,” he whispers.

I’m laughing before my back hits my seat again. “Don’t knock a little fear. As long as no one’s getting hurt, a healthy dose just keeps the passion alive. If you get too comfortable, you’ll start to hate her.”

He’s still nodding when the girl bursts in the diner again and storms back to us. She grabs him by the shirt and drags his ass across the diner floor and out into the parking lot as he waves his solitary goodbye. I’m still snickering at our odd little exchange when a sloppy brown sandwich and coffee slide in front of me.

“Can I get you anything else, Flapjack?” she asks, but before I can even answer, she’s already wandering away again. Good riddance.

The slop is carefully presented to me on a wet plate with a gray pickle. I don’t want to, but I take a bite. It’s not all bad, though maybe a little heavy on the ridicule. When my stomach disagrees, I drop it to my plate and give up, settling back into my seat. I don’t have a hotel room in this town, and I refuse to spend hours locked in a public toilet, puking and shitting myself to death.

I’ve been avoiding thinking about life, or what, lately, I like to call my slow decay into immorality. And now that damn kid has me reminiscing about my wife, which has never been a pleasant experience, especially when I was living it. That child has his whole life ahead of him, and he thinks he’s ready to saddle himself with a woman who literally drags him around by the scruff of his neck. I have lived the demeaning life of a bitter eunuch, and trust me when I say that the sunshine and rainbows that society tries to sell you about how much you’ll enjoy a happy married life after high school is a crock of shit.

All this acrid self-reflection just has me pining over my brief interlude in Boulder, so rather than wallow in that self-inflicted cage, I try to take in my environment. The last thing I need is to ignite a pity party and wind up crying like a pussy on my damn plate. I can’t imagine the cajoling I’d get from that.

My waitress seems to ignore all her customers in lieu of hanging around the counter with the mechanics. They laugh a lot, cracking jokes and making fun of each other. When she and a big guy casually kiss after a high-five, I realize they’re married, and despite my scathing disdain for coupling with another, I can still see a sort of warmth around them both.

It’s the kind of partnership I was hoping to have when I married my wife, one where we could joke and laugh and touch each other in public without one of us stiffening or pulling away; but we never had that warm glow. At least not unless you consider the green light emanating from a barrel of toxic waste to be a _warm glow._

The door chimes, and that curly-haired girl and her boyfriend are back, and with them is a blonde now, being tailed by a doofus in a leather jacket. When the big guy pulls out his wallet, it finally hits me. This is a family. This is a honest, happy family. This is the kind of shit you’d see on television. Not quite _Leave it to Beaver_ material, since the mom seems to be what I’ll call _outspoken,_ but pretty damn close. They’re all smiling and laughing, and that’s half the battle. They’re also talking to each other, which is the other half. The girls even care enough to say goodbye when they leave with their wad of cash.

Hell, when I was sixteen, my dad left for three days without even leaving a damn note. He just disappeared from his bed on a Thursday night and came home after work on Monday. No explanation except he was “busy”.

I was busy, too – busy freaking out because I thought he’d finally offed himself, which he threatened to do every damn day before I went to school. “Today’s the day, kid,” he’d say. “Today’s the day all my problems disappear.” Then he’d shut the door, and I’d walk to school wondering how he’d do it. I remember asking him not to use a gun, because I didn’t think I’d be able to clean it up. When he promised he’d use a noose, I was so damn relieved that I hugged him.

This family, though – they might be rough around the edges, but at least they can stand to be in the same room as one another. That’s a huge accomplishment in my book. I can’t say I’ve ever felt that close to other people, especially my own blood. These poor bastards are living the American dream in poverty-stricken southern Illinois. God blessed 'em.

The hole in my chest starts to ache again, and I realize I’ve never properly identified it, because I don’t know what it is. I always thought it was some form of survivor’s guilt, because I’ve killed innocent people, my own mother among them. But after meeting Sin, I think it’s just overwhelming loneliness. I wanted isolation on the road because it was familiar, but I’m starting to realize that the familiar isn’t always the best; the well-known isn’t all there is, and the beaten path may not be the best course to take, though it’s often the easiest.

My sandwich is cold now because I chose lamentation over eating. I’m about to throw in the towel, pay my check, and head back to both my broken truck and my broken life, when the diner door swings open, and like a pistol to my temple, all my problems seem to disappear.

He sits at the counter and orders a coffee before his eyes flick up to me. He grins and stands, ambling back through the diner to slide into my booth.

“All of America,” he mumbles. “What are the odds?”

“You’re the card shark, you tell me,” I say. I know I can’t wipe this dumb smile off my face, but so be it.

My waitress brings over Sin’s coffee and refills my cup. “Anything else I can get you, Flapjack?”

He cocks his head and I shake mine, both to answer the waitress and interrupt the ridiculous notion blooming in his head. “I’m fine, thank you.” She leaves, and I’m still shaking my head like a lunatic. “Don’t you dare.”

 _“Flapjack,”_ he snickers.

“No.”

“I like it.”

“Don’t.”

“What are you, a cowboy now?” he chuckles.

“They were on a menu, damn it. It’s a regional thing – I don’t know.”

He glances down at my plate, still snickering to himself until his smile slowly fades. “No more eggs, Cowboy? Did I turn you off them or have your tastes changed since Boulder?”

“Oh, no. I still like eggs. Hot, cold, rotten. I eat them all now.”

He laughs as he sips his coffee. “You need a more discerning palate, then.”

“Nah, I’m good with this one.”

There’s a long but oddly comfortable pause as I take in this newfound sense of relief, and the hole in my chest feels a little less gaping as I look at him.

“What are you doing here, Sin? This is a far cry from Missoula.”

“Last I checked, the roads to Chicago didn’t belong to you,” he says with a smirk.

That pause is back, a sorrowful woe that still needs to be addressed.

“I don’t know where to go," I say. "I thought I’d keep going north towards Chicago, but that was probably stupid. I saw my wanted posters.”

 _“Wanted posters?”_ he chuckles. “You really do think you’re a cowboy.”

I’m being serious, and we need to have a discussion about all these damn nicknames, too, but that’ll have to happen later. “Are you going to answer me? What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know how I got here. I just did. Felt right,” he says.

“It … _felt right?”_

He smirks and finishes the rest of his coffee in a single gulp. “I’m parked behind your truck,” he says, and I nod. He saw me from the highway.

“And of all the restaurants, you came here,” I say.

He’s hiding more than just his mouth behind his empty coffee cup. “What are the odds?”

“Pretty damn high, I’d say.”

“All that’s irrelevant, though. We have a bigger problem,” he says, pointing at my nose, “your face is the problem.”

I paw my nose like it’s about to fall off. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“Your face behind the wheel of your rig is what they’re looking for. So we have to ditch your face or your truck. You pick.”

“Considering that you’re incredibly quick, and that I know you have a Buck knife in your back pocket, I’m not going to joke or mince words: let’s ditch the truck,” I say with a grin.

His smile turns into a laugh, then he scans the diner like he’s a con-artist hunting for his mark. He stands and walks to the counter and shouts, “Excuse me!” gathering the attention of everyone in the place. What the hell’s he doing now?

I duck down in the booth as I hear him say, “I have a rig I’m looking to sell, fast and cheap – Kenworth W-923. I’ll hear all offers, any amount. I’ll be sitting right back there if you can think of someone who can help me out. There's a bit of a catch with the trailer which I'd be happy to explain. If you help me out today, you will make out like a bandit.”

I find it a little disconcerting that he knows the make and model of my ride. And wait a minute … he’s selling my truck right now? She’s broken down, and he didn’t even ask me!

He wanders back to the table and sits. “Are you going to finish that?” he says, pointing at the soggy remnants on my plate. I guess this is what we do now – steal each other’s food and, apparently, vehicles. I slide it towards him, but he shakes his head. “No. I mean you need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say. “And you’re just going to sell my truck _now?”_

“You own it, so, yes. You can’t keep it, Cowboy.”

“And you think announcing that it’s for sale in this tiny diner in the middle of nowhere is going to get it sold?”

Our waitress saunters back to refill our coffees and asks, “That rig, how cheap you thinking?”

Is this just how Sin lives? With everything falling into place? Offers and opportunities rain from his sky like stars. He doesn’t even look surprised. He doesn’t even wink at me like he told me so. Luck doesn’t even phase the bastard. No wonder he hung out at casinos.

“You looking to buy?” he asks. “It’ll need some work.”

“My husband’s a mechanic, and my sister just got her CDL.”

Sin gulps down his coffee and hops up to talk to the waitress and her husband about my truck.

In no more than an hour and a half, my truck was no longer _my_ truck. He sold it for peanuts, and now I’m not just a homeless divorcée, but a homeless, jobless divorcée wanted by the police. I’m really living up to my new cowboy role.

When I’m finally standing on the side of the highway, forking over my keys to the big mechanic, I’m holding my entire life in a cardboard box. My tapes, my gun, my book, a couple changes of clothes, a half-empty flask of Jack, and a bottle of aspirin all present and accounted for. I feel like a college student ready to move into my first dorm room, only there’s no room waiting for me, just a long, open road full of cops and hookers and murderers.

I shake the mechanic’s hand, and he loads up and pulls out onto the highway, towing my rig right along with him. I can feel Sin’s gaze burning into me again, but I can’t take my eyes off the ass of my truck. That man driving off is not just towing away my rig. Attached to the truck keys in his pocket are my old house keys, too, on a Tide laundry detergent keychain. I can see them dangling from the front door of the little house where I carried my ex over the threshold, and from my old Chevy’s ignition. But they’re gone, now – another piece of me stolen away, a literal highway robbery this time.

“Hey, Cowboy,” says Sin, and I turn to finally face him. “My cab’s always open to friends.”

Cars and trucks speed past us, and once again I’m left optionless, the weight of fear and logic on my back.

I nod to the truck. “Is Garm in there?”

“She’s waiting for you,” he says, and I crack a smile.

I give my rig one last glance before heading towards the door of my new home, carrying a small cardboard coffin filled with a former life.


	9. Acknowledge the Corn

My truck was a piece of shit compared to Sin’s goddamn Dodge palace. His CB doesn’t crackle incessantly, and his radio works without the stars aligning. The passenger window actually rolls down, too.

The open road is all that’s in front of us, and despite the Tom Selleck look-a-like in my back pocket, I’m feeling sort of free.

Garm’s living in luxury, getting her ears scratched while she hangs her head out the window until her cheeks puff out. She doesn’t care that she’s forced to share her seat with me now, and honestly, I kind of like her sitting on my lap. She’s a damn good dog, though a little heavy.

We’re headed south on I-55 having left Illinois, and are now halfway through Missouri when Sin asks, “Where we headed, Cowboy?”

I don’t have a damn clue. “You decide, Sin, I make very bad decisions.”

“Pick a state.”

“Shouldn’t we be going north to Missoula? Your load is still following us.”

“Just pick a state,” he repeats.

We pass a sign saying Memphis is two hundred miles away, but that’s a bit too populous for my taste and current status with the law.

“Mississippi, then.” That’s just beyond Memphis. We can find a place to hide there, and it’s only three hours away.

“You’re the boss,” he says, lighting another smoke, and I smile at the shit’s smug-ass grin. He’s got to be loving this. He’s been begging to be my _friend_ since Detroit, and now he’s got me locked in this wood-paneled cage; though it is carpeted, comfortable, and pristine.

All of the sudden life doesn’t seem that bad anymore. Sin’s got a nice ride, a sweet dog, and apparently all of America is at his disposal.

After another ten miles, Garm finally gets fed up with my uncomfortable lap and jumps through a thick, tan curtain that hangs behind our seats. I peek back through the curtain to see her curling up by a pillow.

“You have a sleeper,” I say. It’s more of a comment than anything else. I didn’t have one in my old-as-hell truck. I slept in my seat.

“You want me to pull over? We can give it a go,” he mumbles, tonguing the smoke between his lips.

He says that shit on purpose because he knows my face gets beet red.

“Nope. I can see it fine from here, and we shouldn’t slow down.”

He’s chuckling over there, and I know he’s planning on taking full advantage of my constant embarrassment. We haven’t touched each other since Boulder, and in all honestly, I have no idea what the hell this even is. I had approached our little rendezvous thinking we weren’t going to be meeting again quite so soon, but here we are.

Come to think of it, I’m pretty lost out here. I have no place to hide, no escape plan, and this guy’s an actual murderer. Suddenly, this clean and comfortable ride feels petty damn unpleasant.

His eyes are flicking between me and the road, and I’m hoping I didn’t just say any of that out loud, when I hear, “You’re not building another prison, are you Cowboy?”

“Maybe a small one,” I admit.

“There are no walls here. Just open road and a big blue sky.”

I can’t argue with that. Despite my hesitation towards him, I feel bizarrely safe around him, like as long as I keep being honest and open with him, he’ll remain civil. Of course, I've never really been good at that …

My stomach hollers out a loud, obnoxious groan, and I feel sick again. “I never finished my lunch. I think I’m hungry.”

Sin reaches into his door cubby and tosses me a greasy brown paper bag. He doesn’t say a word, so I know this is going to be gruesome. The bag’s old and wrinkly, but smells sweet. I peek inside, and lo and behold, it’s just thick flakes of jerky. It’s good, too – tastes a little like molasses, tangy but earthy.

“What is this? Venison?” I wonder. I can tell it’s not beef.

He looks at me with pitiful eyes and an impish smirk, and I curse him under my breath.

“Are you serious?” I snap, and I spit the mouthful into my hand. “Why would you let me put that in my mouth?” My arm goes out my window to drop it on the highway when he scoffs, ordering me to stop. He whistles for Garm and her head pokes through the curtain and I feed her my half-chewed jerky.

“We don’t waste food, Cowboy,” he says. “Especially now. It’s almost gone.”

“Is that food, though?”

“It’s the best damn jerky you’re ever going to taste.”

“How the hell do you make jerky out of your truck?” I ask, because I have watched people cure meats. It’s not a simple task, and I’m fairly certain you can't get a meat smoker as a special feature on this model of truck.

“I know a guy,” he says. “Back in Colorado.”

Oh, yeah, that’s not suspicious at all. “You know a guy who makes that kind of jerky?”

“He doesn’t know what he’s making, but yes.”

“Do you make a habit out of lying?”

“I lie only when necessary,” he says. “For the greater good.”

“For  _your_ greater good. Are you lying to me right now?”

“Cowboy, I’ve been an open book since the day we met. I have no reason to lie to you.”

He says that, but he’s not looking me in the eye. He’s staring out across the open road like he’s suddenly enchanted by the arid farmland of Missouri. The idea that he could be lying to me smacks me across the face, and I can’t respond.

For the majority of my life, I’ve dealt with liars. My father was a notorious promise breaker. My teachers would say they’d make time for me after class, but never would. My college classmates would agree to take notes if I couldn’t make it, but I’d never get them. My wife was the biggest liar that ever lived. Any moment, Sin could rob me blind and kick me to the curb, or worse yet, flay me, and I’d never see it coming.

Seeing through lies is one of those things that requires a deep understanding of people’s motivations. I have that concept; I get why people lie. They want to save face, or not hurt someone, or because the truth is incriminating. I get that. But to make asinine promises that you have no intention of keeping, or worthless little claims for no reason, I’ll never understand. Do the lies feed the liar’s ego? Do they make their life better? Who gains the most from that little white version of lying? It’s all the same to me – deceitful.

I can’t just pretend that his specialized understanding of human anatomy and body disposal is from years of library research. Though he has yet to formally admit to having killed men before we met, it seems obvious.

I wonder how much he’d admit if I just flat out asked him. Would he be evasive, or does he have a story already prewritten in his mind, just waiting for the right time to wave it around?

"You've killed before," I say. It's not a question and he doesn't deny it.

"Indeed I have," he says.

"You've killed a lot."

He nods and ashes his smoke out the window.

“Why do you do it?” I think I need to know before we hit the state line. My palms are getting sweaty and more road we put under us.

“I’m assuming, after what we just discussed, that you want an honest answer?” he says, and I nod. “I’m going to be frank, because I know you can handle it.”

I appreciate him saying that, but I don’t say so. I need to quit thanking people for respecting me. That’s a good way to start looking like a kiss-ass.

He reaches into the jerky bag, pulls out a chunk, and starts gnawing on it as he drives.

“I like to,” he says. “It feels good.”

He likes to. Feels _good,_ he says. That is a very short but very honest answer.

No excuses. No pleading for understanding. No apology or overly verbose defense like a rational man might spout.

He doesn’t try to justify his actions. He’s not backtracking or stuttering. He’s not stalling or asking me a question as his response.

He just says _i_ _t feels good._

Now, I don’t know what it feels like to kill a man for sport, because technically, I’ve never done it, and I don’t plan to. But I have done other immoral things in the name of feeling good. I’m not going to equate cheating on my wife with murder, but it’s a starting point to jump from while I try to understand this curious asshole sitting next to me.

“Consider our friend being exhumed in Boulder,” he begins, tearing off another piece of jerky. “You attacked him.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“He stole something from me – my money, and I wanted it back. I had no intention of killing him, though. That was an accident – what _I_ did was an accident.”

“Retributive justice,” he says. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a hand for a hand –”

“And a foot for a foot,” I interrupt. “But a wallet is not worth a life.”

“But what’s your dignity worth?” he says, and those blood-red eyes flash at me again. My dignity has nothing to do with this. “You felt justice had been served when we walked away from his grave. Your head was held high.”

“I was looking for cops.”

“You were looking for acknowledgment. And you were proud, even  _below_ the navel.”

This fucking bastard. “I wasn’t  _proud,_ I was optionless and scared. You took my options when you stole my room key.”

“A scared man would have run and hid,” he says.

“I  _did_ hide, with you – in the motel room.”

“You didn’t hide with me. You basked with me, like a dragon lies in the glory of its treasure. You weren’t hiding, you were overindulging yourself,” he says.

I’m speechless, awestruck by his outrageous assumption.

He continues while I try to stay calm, “You didn't run away because you wanted to look at that grave again. You wanted to feed off him and me. You wanted to touch and taste and relive the satisfaction of vindication, and I wanted you to have that.”

I scoff and turn my gaze out the window to catch  _Welcome to Arkansas_ rush past us.

A dragon over treasure? Balance? Feed off him?

Bullshit.

The human mind will always inquire about the taboo and mysterious. It yearns to know more, and what society deems off-limits is the most enticing bait of all. It coaxes men into unsavory dens. It breeds addictions. It feeds sexual fetishes. I wanted to see the grave again, sure, but only out of morbid curiosity, not to feel some ridiculous natural law be restored.

“So you kill because it feels  _good._ You kill so you can bask,” I say.

“No.  _I_ kill to restore.  _You_ bask.“

His eyes return to the road, and I’m left stiff and motionless as I stare at the side of his face.

I did not _bask_ in the death of another human being.

“If all that’s true," I say, "why did you kill him? What exactly were  _you_ restoring? You knew nothing about him except that I said he stole my wallet and fell.”

He stalls, poking his cigarette butt out his window and says, “I know he took more than your wallet, because I watched him do it.”

He what?

He watched him?

He watched  _him do it?_

He watched him take  _more_ than my wallet?

He watched my skull get cracked against my door. He watched that sick fuck rip open my jeans while I bled into the gravel by my truck. It was  _his_ damn dog that ran when I woke up.

I can barely breathe, let alone speak. “You watched him? You sick son of a bitch!”

“I let you make your choice, but I did eventually step in. I’m still a good samaritan after all.”

“A good samaritan?! You are not a good samaritan! You aren’t even a vigilante. You’re just a sick, murdering psycho who gets off on watching people in pain. You soulless piece of shit! You’re no friend of mine. I should turn you in the first chance I get!”

He looks over and slams on the brakes so hard that Garm skitters through the curtain, and I catch her before she hits the windshield.

Dirt and dust fly up along the side of the road as we screech to a halt beside the highway.

“Go, then,” he growls, and I rip open my door and drop out.

Fuck this goddamn son of a bitch.

I almost fall as my numb legs hit the ground, but I keep going – beyond the brush at the side of the road and into a cornfield and I don’t stop.

I just run. I run and run down the longest corn row ever sowed.

It is endless.

It doesn’t turn, or dip, or change, but I don’t dare step off the tamped dirt; I’m lost enough as it is.

I can’t think for the pain behind my eyes. I can’t see for the rage boiling in my chest. I have built prisons in my mind – out of stone, and brick, and glass – but this is the most confining yet. It’s a literal prison where my shackles are constructed from my persistent paranoia about being seen as abnormal, and the walls are fabricated with the outcomes of my own poor decisions.

I have built myself a cage in which I have no wife, no family, no home, no truck, no job, and nowhere I am welcome. I have locked myself in a prison with a goddamn monster. Every shitty choice I’ve ever made has given me a shiny new nail with which to build my own coffin.

I shouldn't have let him sell my truck. I shouldn't have let him get under my skin. I shouldn't have asked for his help. And I sure as hell shouldn't have fucked around with him.

After everything, it makes sense that a snap decision to lay down and rest would be a terrible idea.

I close my burning eyes, barely walk the beaten paths within my mind, and awake to a sunset glowing above me, surrounded by twelve-foot high corn walls.

This happens too often: one minute I’m surveying the damage of my life, and the next I’m out, like my body refuses to think and just buckles under the weight of a lifetime of missed opportunities. I know which way is up, but beyond that, I’m lost in a sea of sharp green leaves under an orange, cloud-filled sky.

How did I manage to come face to face with a man so morally ambiguous that he made me question my own judgment and integrity? I abandoned what few principles I have for revenge. Then, as though I’m a thirty-seven-year-old Anthony Fremont, I wished  _myself_ into a cornfield for having bad thoughts.

I can't believe he watched what happened to me like he was teaching me a lesson. How long did he stay crouched in the woods, laughing while he waited? Did he help himself to a slice of pie after the show?

What did I ever do to him to deserve that cruelty? I didn't hand him Junebug when he offered to take her. I didn't eat breakfast with him in Detroit. I didn't wear his shirt and told him to get lost. He followed me and tricked me and got me tangled up in a crime I never intended to commit ... for what? What did I do to him?

The sky is now rapidly descending into nightfall, and I've wasted the entire day passed out in a field. He lied to me, and he fucked me up by proxy. I needed to think, and now I have no time to reflect on what I should do about his murderous ruse.

I have no time to strangle him over and over in my head. There is no time to visualize how good it would feel to crack his skull against a door until I break his nose with a bloody crunch. I don’t have a single second to chew on what I would do to his body in a darkened alley with no defenses or method of escape.

If the sun weren’t falling, I could contemplate the force needed to slam his chest against the ground so hard that I snap his ribs. I could imagine pulling out his Buck knife and holding it to his heaving throat as I strip him of his belt and his precious dignity with a wrench of his jeans and a thrust of my cock.

I want to watch his nose and mouth ruddy the dirt under his face. I want to step over his mangled and defiled body, nudging it with my boot to hear him moan. I want to voyeuristically gawk from the woods until the sun floods the disgraceful scene, just so I can watch him wake up debased, bloody, and alone, gravel embedded in every inch of his skin, and stinking of diesel.

But like I said, there is no time to reflect on such matters.

A light tapping fills the air, and I look up at the illuminated rain clouds as they crack and engulf me with their tears. It’s befitting, if I’m being honest. It’s like God weeps for me, which is the least the fucker can do, considering he’s been nothing but a vengeful prick since he flooded the earth with tiny, malevolent versions of himself.

I roll down my dampening sleeves only to realize they aren’t  _my_ sleeves. I decide to sprint back to my truck and stop; it isn’t  _my_ truck, and it’s probably long gone.

The storm is stealing the last glimmers of sunlight, so I pick a corn row, pray to the pervert above, and book it.

If you’ve never run through a cornfield, I don’t recommend it. Even in the best of circumstances, dry and brightly lit, the leaves sting and you  _will_ fall. I stumble until I’m muddy from the waist down, having tripped on just as many stalks as I’ve passed.

I keep running through the downpour until it’s dark. I’m not a man who’s afraid of the darkness, but I do fear the creatures that lurk within it. They’re the same beasts that live in my head, and they’re frightening.

My father blamed Voodoo for my nightmares as a child, but I watched a lot of scary shows as a kid. The results were three-eyed aliens, apocalyptic robots, and giant lizards haunting me at all hours of the night.

A badly placed foot lands me in a muddy pit and knocks the wind out of me. I gasp and eventually roll to my back, until I catch my breath and then realize I did it again – I laid down, and now I’m even more disoriented than before. This is why you don’t wander into goddamn cornfields when you’re out of your fucking mind.

I’m about to roll to my belly and admit defeat when I hear a few faint car horns through the deluge of water pouring from the abyss above. I hop to my feet and take off towards the sound of slowed traffic. If I run straight into a car, it’s a win/win. I’ll be dead, and I’ll finally know for certain that God is a merciful being after all.

I rush out of the corn and into the wide expanse of a highway; it’s like I’m free falling off a cliff, pummeled by air and all of time and space.

I skid in the gravel and careen into a post that drops me like a baseball bat to the head. When the blinding fog dissipates, I lay there, waiting patiently for a passing car to illuminate the sign:  _Welcome to Arkansas,_ it reads. And what a welcome it was.

I clamber to my feet, reorient myself amidst the torrential rain, and start walking south.

A part of me wants the truck to be hauling ass to Missoula by now. A part of me wants him to be a responsible, contributing member of our society with a normal job and a hero complex. A part of me wants him to be a damn liar, so I don’t have to face the reality that every person I’ve ever known has stood back and watched me get hurt in unspeakable ways.

The part of me that wants the truck to be right where I left it must be bigger than the rest, because my body relaxes when I see its load of logs lit up by passing cars. It is agonizing to know that he let it happen, but that he watched me be pinned down and violated at my most vulnerable feels unforgivable. I feel sick and filthy, and so weak that I can’t bear the thought of facing him.

The ground beneath his trailer is relatively dry, though it won’t be for long. But at least I can sit up underneath it, so I crawl below the stack of logs and get out of the driving rain.

These seemingly hopeless situations bring to mind my little game of roulette and I wonder who am I going to be today.

Am I going to survive this? Am I going to pick myself up, be a man, and forge past my assault to keep on living? Am I going to listen to Sin’s reasoning and behave like a mature adult? Will I climb back in the truck and face my red-eyed demons?

Am I going to be a victim of this? Let him treat me like a delicate teacup, pre-cracked and ready to shatter at the slightest nudge? Will I let him, despite his wrongdoings, hold me through the night while I weep? Will I nuzzle his chest and hope his hot hands take away my pain?

Or am I going to be a coward and run, only to realize that I am hopelessly lost without some bastard telling me what to do? Am I going to wander back to that same bastard, my tail between my legs, and cower under his truck like a terrified mongrel?

This spin ended faster than most.

I hug my knees to my chest and realize Sin’s heavy shirt is a godsend, now that the winds are picking up and cutting under the truck. Not even the rushing of late night travelers can keep me awake, despite my lengthy nap in the cornfield. My body isn’t ready to handle the life of a starving stray, so I lay my head at the base of a tire and pray that Sin guns it when he finally leaves me behind.


	10. Lie with Dogs, Rise with Fleas

Cold water is pooling under my back when I come to. I try to squirm away, but as I tip, I’m attacked with a face-full of slobber. I paw at Garm’s snout, pushing her off my chest, and roll out from under the truck, straight into the pouring rain.

It has to be the middle of the night; it’s pitch black outside and there’s no traffic for miles because of this freezing monsoon.

I’m about to crawl back under the truck and sulk when a booming voice shouts over the rumble of thunder, “Are you a goddamn dog, Cowboy?!”

I turn to face him, and am blinded by a beam of light.

“… I like dogs!” I shout back, and I can hear him laugh through the roaring water.

Without warning, I'm dragged through the darkness like a mutt. A door pulls open and I'm shoved inside. It slams behind me and suddenly the world hums with the sound of rain drumming on the roof, and I’m bathed in the soft, yellow glow of the truck’s dome lights. It's warm, dry, and smells fresh and muddy.

Sin hops in and slams his door, leaning back in his seat in a soaked black raincoat, wagging his flashlight at me.

“You are hard to predict,” he says with a sigh. Am I? I thought running from all of life’s problems was my M.O.

He must have been out in the rain for a while, because he throws the flashlight into a compartment in the dash and peels off his coat with an exhausted disgust. “How long were you under the damn trailer?” he wonders.

My jaw chatters as I try to speak. “A day, a week? Who keeps track of that shit?”

“Where else are you hurt?”

Hurt? Why would I be hurt? My mud-covered hands look fine and I’m soaked to the bone and shivering, but I’m not hurt.

“Your face is bleeding,” he says.

I touch my sore nose and start to tell him what happened, but I stop. How much of an explanation do I owe him? He’s just an asshole who took advantage of my need for help. He watched me be defiled by a monster, then egged me on when I knocked the guy out. Then he gets me twisted and tangled in some organ collecting butcher story that’s spreading across the Midwest like a disease. I don’t owe this guy anything.

Sin’s waiting for me to continue, but I feel highly exposed, stuck in this little glowing box amidst the black oblivion outside.

On the console between us is a brown canvas bag of medical supplies and a couple wet towels. How long  _was_ he looking for me?

I finally cave, because I always do. “I ran into a sign. The, uh, the Arkansas sign we passed about a half mile back.”

He starts snickering and hands me a damp towel to wipe my face. “Unpredictable,” he repeats. “Why would you head back north?”

“I wasn’t heading anywhere, I was lost. And why didn’t you leave?”

It’s not an unfair question, but he looks almost hurt that I asked.

“I wasn’t abandoning you. You were building another prison, so I let you out.”

The fact that he knows I'm plagued with mental prisons makes me sick. He shouldn't know any of this. Even my ex-wife didn't understand to what degree life bogs me down. When it gets overwhelming, I tend to build worlds within my head to cope. They help me rationalize the parts of life that feel out of my control, like when a man claiming to be my friend turns out to be a bastard with a disturbing idea about what constitutes good Samaritanism.

Some of the worlds I create were real to me, like I’m reliving past memories of places I'd never intended to return to. But others are what my overactive imagination fabricates to explain why people do what they do. That man gruffly brushing past you at the grocery store isn't a crotchety asshole. He's a tax paying American man with a wife and a home, who had spent the last two years of his life supporting his president and a war that he just lost both his sons to. That woman isn't a flake, dropping coins and ignoring your comments about the weather; she just got back from the doctor and what happened there is none of your goddamn business.

There are hidden parts of everyone's lives that stay locked away from the rest of us, but there are always ways in. You have to dive into yellowing eyes, unshaved cheeks, or maybe just a quivering tone of voice to find out how bad or how grim life can get.

When I’m near an emotional person, I tend to lose myself in their affectivity. When I inevitably can’t untangle my own feelings from theirs, I start building walls to protect myself. These cages I create, keep me from overreacting. If I didn't build them, I'd turn into a blubbering or trigger-happy fool. But those emotions that I’m forced to imprison, build up like a dark cloud inside me. I don’t often get to keep the good feelings in life, but I always retain the bad, despite how crippling it has become.

Something inside Sin can sense this. He hears more than just my stuttering words when I speak. He hears my pent-up sadness, growing fear, and the voices of a hundred people who have hurt me in just as many ways as I've hurt them.

After only a few brief, though intensely intimate meetings, I worry that Sin sees something disconcerting in me, and the attention he draws to it is as unwanted as it is unsettling.

There is no denying what he is – a monster with an odd tongue and an even odder palate – but I can’t deny what I am, either. I’m alone, bitter, and slowly coming unglued again, and somehow Sin can smell it.

As I sit here chewing my own instability, he twists in his seat to wrench off his wet, muddy clothes. He strips down to his briefs, unencumbered by embarrassment or the many other trivialities of life. He has no use or time for those things. They’re reserved for people like me, still bound to the earth with fetters forged of guilt and shame.

He tosses the bag and wet towels to the floor and crawls over the console to lay down on the elevated bed behind the seats.

“What about Garm?” I wonder. She’s still outside in the downpour.

“She hunts, too,” he says. “She’ll be fine.”

“But the road?”

He snickers because I sound like a nervous little girl, scared to leave her new puppy outside in a drizzle.

“She’s fast, Cowboy, don’t worry about her.”

He’s lying on his side, and I’m left peering over my shoulder at him, dripping in my seat and still shivering like a wet cat. I can’t go to bed and warm up with the gawking bystander who did nothing while I was attacked. It’s unconscionable, and my stomach churns at the thought.

Then, as though he can read my mind through my eyes, he says, “I stopped him.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what I said. Garm chased them both off. I wanted to see if you’d fight, and when you didn’t – or couldn’t – I sent her.”

What does this mean? He  _stopped_ him? He sent Garm?

I have always lived in denial about the atrocities of my life, pretending to be stronger than I am. But now my denial mocks me, saying it  _knew_ nothing happened, and that I was just being dramatic. My denial laughs and says, _“See, you faggot? You just made it all up in your head because you’re a pervert.”_

But I didn’t make it up.

It felt like it happened, or at least I thought it had.

I can still feel the cold gun on my cheek and that terror clutching my chest. _“You didn’t even fight back,”_ says denial. _“Maybe you were wishing for it. Maybe what you feel now is disappointment, you sick fuck. Because now you aren’t a victim, and you’ll never be a survivor. You’re just a coward with made-up stories about how badly the world treats you. Sin’s dog protects your dignity better than you can. Nothing happened that night, and you know it.”_

A sickening relief floods me, but it’s short-lived as the churning in my gut intensifies. I don’t understand any of this. If Sin stopped him, does this mean I attacked that man for no reason? He hadn’t even stolen my wallet.

Sin sits up and clears his throat. “That’s not to say what happened in Boulder wasn’t justified.”

But that’s exactly what he’s saying. “Where’s your precious balance, Sin? We killed a man who had, according to you, done nothing to me. What balance did we restore in Boulder?”

“His intent was to hurt you. Your intent was to kill him. Neither of you succeeded.”

“But  _you_ succeeded. Are you exempt from your own rules now?”

“We should meet actions in kind,” he says.

“And what action was met in kind, I wonder?”

“He treated you like a piece of meat, so I treated him with the same respect you’d show a pig. Retributive justice, Cowboy.”

Retributive justice ... a piece of meat ... I’m suddenly detached, like my body has simply forgotten how to feel.

His eyes burrow into mine, blood-red despite the amber lights. "I know what you need," he say, but how could he? "You need to warm up. You're barely skin and bones."

What I need is to build a wall between us. I need to hide inside my head to escape the reaches of this tether he’s tied to me. 

But I don’t. I can't. And a part of me thinks he knows that.

I’m wet and shaking and I have a choice to make. I can’t be a better man and walk away from this. I can’t run and hide, because I’m freezing and alone. I have to choose his warm skin over his cold blood because I’m scared, and lost, and I don’t know what else to do.

I can’t stomach looking at him, though, so I focus on my soaked clothes. I have to get them off my back; they’re too cold. My numb fingers fumble down the buttons on my shirt –  _his_ shirt – but I can’t get them undone. Since I’m not moving fast enough for his taste, Sin reaches around the seat to unbutton the shirt himself.

My body won’t even afford me a shred of self-respect, so my breath stutters shamefully as he exhales warm air across my neck. I avoid his eyes while he pulls his shirt from my jeans and helps me drop the rest of my wet clothes to the floor.

It’s humiliating to be disrobed like this, to have his pitch-black eyes scouring my skin as more and more is exposed, but his gaze doesn’t seem to linger on any spot for too long.

I thought I knew the difference between right and wrong. I thought if I just tried to be a decent person, that right and wrong would always be obvious. But that is not the case. There is no black and white. There’s just a formless gray mass hovering over my life.

He tugs my arm and I relent, crawling over the console and into the bed, and Sin flicks off the lights as we lay down, facing each other.

A heavy blanket is pulled up and over us both, and he tucks it under my back. It’s so warm and dark, and all I can hear is the plunking of rain on metal. It’s relaxing despite the storm above us and between us, but the tight quarters quickly become claustrophobic.

I squirm around, trying to get comfortable, and accidentally knee him in the thigh.

“Problem?” he asks.

“It feels like a coffin.”

“You’ll get used to it."

Despite having spent an hour searching for me in the freezing rain, his hand burns the shivering skin of my arm. That blistering hand drops from my elbow to paw at my hip, and I can feel those bottomless pits staring at me through the darkness. He’s only inches from my face, but I can barely see him, and I can feel more than just his fingers exploring me.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asks.

“Are you capable of apologizing to humans?”

“You must think me a monster.”

“You’re speaking to me through the darkness. It’s not a hard leap to make.”

He snickers and his hand continues trailing up my gaunt ribs like he’s brushing the keys on a piano. “You’re starving yourself,” he says, and his voice strangely catches. “Whether you like it or not, you  _will_ eat tomorrow.”

“That’s a very bold statement.”

“It’s not a statement. It’s a fact. Why aren’t you eating?”

Though food rarely makes it to my mouth anymore, when it does, it turns to ash on my tongue. "I don’t want to eat ... or be eaten,” I clarify.

 _“The worst thing that could possibly happen to anybody, would be to not be used for anything,”_ he quotes, and his hand slides down the small of my back.

“That not the most poetic line of the book,” I say.

“But surely the most truthful.”

“Don’t use my most cherished possession against my own logic,” I say.

“I think Vonnegut would find humor in that.”

“Vonnegut finds humor in a lot of dark things, but there is nothing funny about this.”

I can hear the bastard snickering in the dark.

“Those with power laugh because there is no one to stop them," I scoff. "Life for the commoner is nothing but a lengthy joke."

“God must never stop laughing, then.”

“God is the greatest joke of them all.”

“We finally agree on something,” he says, and his hand wrenches me into his body.

“You’re  _proud below the navel,”_ I say, and he laughs again.

“You know you're kind of funny when you aren't insulting me.”

“Life for the commoner is nothing but a lengthy joke, remember?”

“You’re not a commoner; at least you were never meant to be,” he says, and those hot fingers find and trace the long scar that runs across my chest.

“I suppose I should feel honored to hear you say that.”

“I’m not above you, Cowboy.”

“And yet you hold the keys to the kingdom – literally in this case. You’re all-seeing and all-knowing, and I’m but a peasant shielded under your mighty wing.”

"I told you what I did, and how I _tried_ to make amends. You deserved justice so I gave it to you."

"That's funny because justice isn't what it feels like to me."

"Then tell me what it feels like to you."

"It feels like I've had the rug ripped out from under me, and I have no idea why."

"You don't know why you feel that way?" he wonders.

"No – I don't know why you grabbed the rug and pulled."

I can practically hear him smiling. "I saw a loose thread, and I didn't want you to trip."

Bullshit. "You didn't want me to trip … so you pushed me instead. That's an odd way to protect someone."

"So you agree that I was protecting you."

"I agree that you …" Wait, no, I'm not _agreeing_ to anything. "Don't twist this around to make yourself look like a hero."

"I wouldn't dream of it," he snickers.

I called this asshole sexy once. Last week was a simpler time. "You're toying with me now."

"Am I? I thought we were discussing your unfounded suspicions of me."

"Not unfounded. My suspicions are very very founded."

He inches back and says, “If you’re going to ridicule me, I’ll turn away.”

“I'm not ridiculing you and that's a terrible threat. Are you sure you want your back to me? I’m feeling a little  _proud_ myself, and I’m not particularly happy with you at the moment.”

He’s still snickering as his hand slides up to my neck to hold my cheek in his palm.

If I'm being honest though, I do feel a little proud, and not just because he's managed to coax my dick hard. Making him laugh feels like I’m breaking down a different kind of wall, one that he’s been erecting all his life.

His thumb slides across my mouth, and while I can’t see anything but black, I can feel heat approaching my face until his lips finally meet mine.

I now curse the rain on the roof because it’s drowning out the little moans he releases when he consumes my mouth. I want to hear him groan across my lips. I want to know that I can make this brute drop his guard and become as vulnerable as I always feel. Just realizing how much he wants me makes me feel powerful.

That preoccupation he has with teeth rears its head as he bites at my lips and chews my jaw, like he’s trying to see my face with his mouth. As he pants in my ear, my mind tumbles back through our last conversation, and I wonder whether I can rationalize a shred of hatred for this man anymore.

He almost makes me feel  _too_ good to hold a grudge, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. He makes me question my ability to hate a man who came to my aid in my hour of need. How could I possibly scorn a man who saw something inside of me worth protecting?

When his hands grip my ass and he wrenches my cock into his belly, that night in Boulder flickers through my mind. But it’s not the bloody knuckles, the fresh grave, or the tackle to the dirt that I recall, it’s this same feeling of his hands all over my body and his tongue tasting my neck that I remember in such vivid detail.

The fear and panic of that day are overwhelmed by the weight of satisfaction. Everything that day just felt  _good._

I’m not sure why I bothered to keep my boxers on, because he’d stripped off his own briefs before I’d even climbed into his bed. We both knew where this was headed as soon as he threw me back in the truck. He knows I’m too weak to run again, and his body is as lonely as mine.

He sits up and rolls me to my back as he climbs on top of me. With every scrape of my fingernails down his back, his teeth lock down on my neck, and I realize what he meant when he said that I basked. I did bask after we murdered someone together; but it wasn’t in the kill, it was in the glory of him.

There are people who bring nothing more to the table than the simple pleasantries of life. A neighbor handing you a beer at a picnic is  _nice._ A coworker gifting you a doughnut for your birthday is  _nice._ A spouse preparing a hot dinner for you after a grueling day is  _nice._

Above and beyond that is this six-course meal who is dragging off my boxers and gnawing at my stomach as we speak. He goes beyond the simple pleasantries of  _niceness._ He is, and gives to me, something more akin to the divine.

Despite my empty stomach, I don’t feel hungry when I have his body at my mercy. I am free to indulge in the salt of his sweat, the pungent smell of his skin, and the fullness of his broad shoulders as my hands explore his flesh. I would feel downright gluttonous from my consumption of him, if he wasn’t devouring me in turn.

That all-consuming tongue of his likes to take its sweet time as it explores my skin. He is a man of endless patience, coaxing exactly what he wants out of me and life, and he does so with the utmost finesse. He maintains a certain dignified presence, despite his gruff demeanor. The untrained eye wouldn’t see it, but when he  _is_  clothed, the cut and fabric of his shirts lay across his shoulders like they were a gift from Frigg herself. His truck is top-of-the-line and immaculate. Hell, even Garm is well-groomed.

He is a walking paradox, living on the road and off the land like an honest-to-God cowboy, but within the luxury of this aristocratic bubble. This real cowboy isn’t just a rogue, he’s a world traveler, a friend of the rich and famous, a man with a very  _particular_  palate and a taste for top-shelf martinis. He’s an enigma with all the world presented to him, and he’s picking  _my_ body to savor with his discerning tongue.

These are my overwhelming thoughts while my fingers clench a fistful of the grey-blond hair hovering over my waist. These thoughts are also, oddly enough, very similar to the overly emotional musings of a hormonal teenage girl who just got asked to prom by the most popular boy at school.

This incubus sucking on my cock may be a conniving bastard, but he’s not impossible to read. Believe me, I understand what happens to a person amidst the throes of passion.

He knows my weakness, and it’s only a matter of time before I find his. I may be getting a little attached, but in my defense, his tongue is lapping at the base of my dick, so I’m having a hard time not wanting to marry the son of a bitch.

But I am not an idiot, and I know how the human mind works. And if he thinks he’s pulling a fast one by  _apologizing_ to me with a blow job in the back of his truck, he can think again. If he assumes that I think our facetious nicknames will keep things fun and mysterious, he doesn’t know me at all. If he believes I will simply forgive and forget that he lied about following me and about my attacker, he is dead ass wrong. If he presumes that soft kisses and quoting Vonnegut will hasten my devotion to him, he is a goddamn fool. He expects me to bow to his animalistic rituals and dine with him tomorrow like a savage, but he’s about to be sorely disappointed by my appetite. I have been taken advantage of my whole life, and I can smell deceit a mile away.

But for now, in this coffin of my own making, I will take that greedy little tongue and that hot arrogant mouth of his and enjoy it while I can, because I know at any moment this fucker could turn on me like a rabid dog.


	11. A Bunch of Fives

When I finally open my eyes, we’re stuck together like the pages of my dad’s old Hustlers, his sweaty chest smashed against my back.  _When_ he rolled behind me, I don’t remember, but now I’m being crushed against the back wall of the sleeper.

I peer over both of our shoulders, and my eyes are flooded with the light from the wide-open windshield. I know the truck sits too high for anyone to see in, but Sin’s bare ass is hanging out for all the northbound traffic to gawk at, so I elbow him.

“Get the hell off me,” I groan. My throat’s dry and hoarse from spending all night sucking on Sin's sandpapery neck.

He moans and rubs his face into my hair like he didn’t hear me, so I push his thigh off my hip and try to roll over in the tiny bed. After wrenching around and elbowing him a couple of times, he finally gets the hint and backs away, peeling open his sticky eyes.

“‘Morning, Cowboy.”

He dropped the  _good_ – smart move. “Same to you,” I snap.

“I take it you aren't a morning person?”

“Something like that. Cover yourself up, for God’s sake.”

He chuckles and reaches behind himself to pull the blanket from between the seats, and tosses it over us. “You’re far more modest than me. You don’t have to be,” he says.

“I consider immodesty  _rude._ We all have preferences … and stop laughing at me.”

He lays back down and defensively holds up his hands, as though asking someone to stop laughing at every damn word you say is somehow being overly aggressive.

“Do you have any other preferences I should know about? I’d hate to keep offending you,” he says. The bastard can’t even stifle his smirk.

I scoff and yank the pillow out from under him. I’m not dealing with his shit so early in the day. Ignoring his smug face, I lay down again, pressing my back against the wall and close my eyes.

At this point, I’m living entirely off the meager fat stores around my internal organs, so I refuse to move. I expended way too much energy weaving through cornfields in the rain and feel like I just ran a marathon on a belly full of mucus.

His hand snakes around my back, and he yanks me into his chest so he can shove his hard cock into my stomach. He’s so pleasant … I can’t believe he hasn’t stolen some poor schmuck's heart already.

“Get off me. I’m going to puke.”

“You need to eat, Cowboy. You can’t survive on coffee and dick.”

“No shit,” I grumble.

I know he’s snickering again, but I’ve lost interest in arguing. I need to recover from whatever the hell you would call a spite-filled, apology fuck. Then, as though he’s oblivious to the subtle signals I’ve sent about my mood, he starts kissing the skin under my ear.

He licks my neck and starts stroking my soft cock like my body is nothing but an amusement park. I hate to break it to him, but this is not happening again. If his fingers explore anymore of my ass, I'm going to puke all over him and his goddamn bed.

He stops when I grimace and pulls away. “Let’s get back on the road,” he says, and I couldn’t agree more.

We both drag ourselves out of bed and dress in whatever dry clothes we can find. We drop out of the truck to piss, and as soon as my feet hit the ground, Garm barrels out of the cornfield and knocks me down, licking me like she hasn’t seen me in years. It’s nice to feel her exuberance for me. I never had a dog of my own growing up; my dad shot strays, so I stopped bringing them home after a while, but I always wanted a dog, and Garm’s still sweet to me, even though her upbringing and training had to be grisly.

After we piss and Garm curls up on the sweat and cum-covered bed, we get back on the road to Mississippi. Apparently, the infallible Sin  _can_ get it wrong. It wasn’t  _morning_ at all. It was damn near evening by the time we rolled out of bed and started driving.

Days are flowing together like long, sticky strings of memories tangled in dreams, and I can’t tell which end’s trailing away from me anymore. I’m missing gaps of time – from exhaustion or starvation – and the times I  _can_ see clearly are just snapshots of cold steak and bloody skies.

The conversation between us doesn’t flow anymore, not that it should. I still can’t shake my resentment, and my guts are cramping with every breath, but Sin looks unfazed behind the wheel. He’s just molesting the cigarette between his lips and messing with the radio, bullshitting with half a dozen other truckers heading south.

His handle changes with the wind. First, he’s  _Butcher,_ which I find repugnant, but a few miles later he’s  _Sweet Cheeks,_ then  _Looter, Shotgun, Acid Mouth_ … Every name brings a bizarre new personality that flows through him like water.

He’s vulgar, surly, then brutally honest. His voice bends, and his laugh deepens, and the ease with which he alters himself is disconcerting; I’m suddenly grateful that I’m suspicious of this asshole. He truly is an enigma, and I cannot afford to let my guard drop.

“So, Cowboy,” he begins when he finally hangs up the receiver, “Tell me about life in Louisiana. What was little Cowboy like?”

“Little Cowboy was poor. Something tells me you were not.”

“We aren’t talking about me,” he says, and I roll my eyes. Of course we aren’t. That would reveal far too much information for the enigma’s comfort.

“My father bounced between jobs at ports around the Gulf,” I say. “New Orleans, Biloxi, Mobile … he was too much of a chicken shit to wander too far from Baton Rouge. He even got hired for a job on Lake Erie, but didn’t take it, so we stayed in our shitty little shack in Louisiana until I left to become a _goddamn Yank_ _,_ which is ridiculous because Maryland isn’t even in New England. As far as I know, he’s still stuck in the shack we both grew up in.”

He nods and stares out at the road. “And the mother?”

Sorry pal, you can kiss my ass. “Gone,” I snap, and that’s all I’m going to say about her. “Little Cowboy was on his own, much like big Cowboy, and there isn’t a lot to tell.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” he says. “Who gave you that scar?”

My jaw clenches so tightly that a sharp pain shoots up behind my eye. It’s not a fascinating story, but it does represent an important event in the timeline of my inequitable life. “Car crash,” I blurt.

Sin’s eyes widen. I guess he wasn’t expecting such a benign answer. “What happened?”

“I was in college ... My dorm was closed over Thanksgiving; they were going to spray for something, and I had to leave. They offered us stragglers a few rooms in another dorm, but I made the stupid choice to go home and see my father. I fell asleep.”

He looks over at me, his face blank. “You fell asleep on the road?”

“It’s a long drive.”

“That it?”

“Yep,” I say.

“How long were you in the hospital?”

“A month. A piece of metal tore open my chest. Ripped up a bunch of nerves in my arm, too. It almost pierced my heart, but it didn’t, as fate would have it. Recovery was gruesome and it took a long time for me to not wish it had killed me.”

He nods like he actually cares about any of this, and glances down at my left hand which, like now, I often unconsciously rub. My fingertips perpetually tingle on that hand; it took years to get used to.

“That was the last time I saw my old man, too,” I share. I don’t want to talk about any of this, but I can’t go back to listening to  _Butcher_ argue with  _Red Dragon_ about Japanese women having sideways pussies.

“How long ago was that?” he wonders.

“Almost fifteen years.”

“And you hate your old man?”

“I hate everyone.”

“Not me, I hope.”

“Sin Man, I hate you most of all,” I say, and my eyes drift out over cornfields again. There’s a long pause where the only sounds within the cab are the winds through the open windows and the faint beat of Steppenwolf on the radio.

“It hurts to hear you say that,” he finally says, taking a long drag as his smoke and his words hover between us.

“I find it hard to believe you can be hurt. ”But that’s not entirely true. I know he can be hurt because I can feel it. He wants a very specific relationship with me, and while I don’t fully understand what it is, I can still sense it. There is a partnership forming – at least he thinks so – and if he doesn’t get that partnership, he will be hurt.

But do you know what happens when you hurt someone who thinks they’re invincible? You get a monstrosity the likes of which humankind has yet to fathom. Test a man on the very edge of madness; he will outperform all nightmares with horror to spare. He will draw and quarter his own mother for laughs. He will tear the flesh from his lover and never shed a tear. He will flay his own children and still be unsatisfied. You do not hurt these men. You simply unleash the demon their ego clings so tightly to.

I will not succumb to his murderous whims. I  _will_ fuck him though, because there’s no reason not to. But he’s wrong about me. I wasn’t proud when the mugger was finally covered in dirt, and we didn’t fuck around afterward because I was overcome with self-satisfaction. I’ll admit that there was some eroticism after the entire ordeal, but since I had been denying myself any sexual experiences for so long, who can blame me for jumping at the opportunity to fuck someone who started prancing around my motel room with a bloody knife and a hard cock?

This silence is starting to get to  _me_ now.

“What’s your name?” I finally ask. I need to know. It’s driving me crazy.

“Not today, Cowboy.”

So, I answer his questions but he has no obligation to answer mine? He’s one of those men that has to hold all the cards or no one gets to play the game. Is he aware that I’m keeping score? Does he know I’m looking for a tell? I may be losing whatever sick game this is, but at least I recognize that he’s only winning because he cheats.

He keeps glancing at me because I’m staring at the side of his face like it’s a t-bone.

“Penny for your thoughts, Cowboy?” he asks, and I wonder, briefly, if he’s getting nervous.

I lean back and relax in my seat. “I’m going to need a whole lot more than a penny for these thoughts, Sin Man.”

“I was born in Lithuania,” he admits.

“A shiny new penny,” I scoff.

“My family owned an estate. We lived there until the war.”

“Is that your two cents, then?”

He nods and stops. I don’t want his bullshit. I asked for his name, not some fabricated backstory that he thinks will appease me.

“Tell me about the first man you killed,” I say. “That’s got to be worth at least a nickel.”

“He was a meat man. He was rude and needed to apologize for his vulgarities and wouldn’t. He was disrespectful to someone I cared about, so I showed him no respect or mercy in return.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Jesus Christ,” I sigh.

He chuckles. “You have a very high opinion of your own moral code, Cowboy. Self-righteous, even.”

“I was burying the bloated corpse of my neighbor’s dog at thirteen. And I’m not so sure I actually have morals anymore.”

“Disassociate yourself from man’s law. You live by a new code now.”

I live by  _his_ code now. I wonder what that means exactly. If I continue poking him with a stick, will he cut off my hand, or make me eat the stick? If I don’t make him come fast enough, will he flay my dick? Castrate me? If I call him a pig, how much meat would he get from me? I’m nothing but skin at the moment. That’s got to be why he wants me to eat. He’s fattening me up for slaughter. Out here on the road, living livestock keeps better than butchered meat. It’s just a convenient bonus that he can also fuck me whenever he wants. Homosexuality, cannibalism, murder, lying … and now beastiality, if he thinks me a pig. It’s too bad we aren’t blood-brothers; we might have a full bingo card of blasphemy otherwise.

“Ask me anything other than my name, and I’ll answer you truthfully. I have no reason to lie,” he says.

“Okay. Did you jerk off while he ... had his way with me?”

“I told you, I stopped him.”

“It’s funny that you keep saying that. I wonder why don’t I believe you.”

“Because you don’t understand me.”

“I understand you enough to know that you waited for me to fight back, and when I didn’t, you let him slam my head into my truck door. I  _remember_ that.”

“I wanted to see how strong you were.”

“I failed your test, so you let him punish me.”

“There was no test, and there was no punishment.”

“You called me a man with nothing to lose, but if you’re breathing, there is plenty left to lose.”

He’s obviously getting fed up, so he holds up his hands to squelch my tirade.

“I  _was_ following you,” he finally admits. “I knew you were a ticking time-bomb and I was curious to see you go off – it was inevitable. I only allowed what was necessary to ignite your fuse, nothing more. I will apologize for that, but eventually, you  _did_ explode, and I was lucky enough to witness it. And while you didn’t ultimately finish him, your intent was there, and it was beautiful.”

“It was  _beautiful?_ You call that mess  _beautiful?”_

“Your first sets in motion a new life – one of transformative beauty. The first is  _always_ beautiful,” he says.

What an arrogant, presumptuous dick. I lean back in my seat, crossing my arms, and snicker to myself while he lustfully gawks at me.

“He wasn’t my first, you asshole. He was my fifth.”


	12. Old Sins Cast Long Shadows

We pass into Mississippi when the sun finally sets, enveloping the truck in darkness. After I admitted to my  _multiple infractions,_ as I’ll call them, Sin went silent. I think he’s re-evaluating me. I have yet to divulge the truth about those other four deaths – in time, we may get there – but until then, he can think whatever he wants to about me. The more he sees me as a loose cannon, the better. There’s only one of my organs I want his mouth, and after thinking about it, I’m not so sure that's a good idea. 

Sin got off the highway some time ago, and we’ve been traveling smaller back roads ever since. He seems to be looking for something, but I’m not asking what it is. I took a vow of silence after my admission, and I’d rather not travel down that path again. The path we’re driving, though, is in the middle of nowhere, and every pothole is jolting my empty gut. Something about my whimpering at every jolt has Sin staring at me from behind the wheel. I bet the asshole's hitting them on purpose.

“You’re going to puke,” he says and blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“You think?!”

“Window, son. Not in my truck.”

I glare at him and grip my stomach through the pain. Now I just want to puke in his goddamn lap. “Pull over.”

He nods to a station just up the darkened road and pulls in to park just as I crack the door and empty my stomach all over the foot rail. I’m still spitting out mouthfuls of bile when Sin and Garm traipse around the truck to watch me like I’m putting on a damn show.

“You need to eat, Cowboy.”

That is stellar advice, considering I can’t keep food down and my head is hanging out of the truck.

“You need to shut the hell up.”

He snickers and lights another smoke as he fills the tank.

God damn him to hell. God damn everything to hell: the truck, this station, that goddamn dog … well, maybe not the dog.

I lean back in my seat and realize I just covered the inside of my door with frothy acrid spit.

Good.

It’ll give that asshole something else to be pissed about.

I wipe my sweating face with a towel from the floor, and my hands shake with every swipe across my cheek. I seriously need to eat, but I hate admitting that Sin’s right. The last thing I need is to boost that bastard’s ego.

For my health’s sake though, I give in and lean out my window. “I need to eat!” I yell back to Sin.

“No shit,” he says. “I have food in the truck.”

“I don’t want  _your_ food. Get me something in there.” I wave towards the tiny store, but I know he’s going to protest, so I continue, “I have puke all over my shirt, and I’m hungry right now. Just get anything; I don’t care.”

He scoffs, but doesn’t object and caps up the tank before heading inside the store.

The outside of the station is desolate and dark, and with the truck finally quiet I take this rare moment to just sit in total silence. My dropping blood pressure, burning stomach, and non-existent blood sugar is creating a potent cocktail of headaches and anxiety. I’m freezing cold and I can’t stop yawning.

My foggy eyes focus on the only other moving object in my field of vision, a swarm of moths around a single lamp post in the middle of the vacant lot. There is one vehicle – a small tan sedan parked at the pump right under the post. Its driver, a blonde woman in her twenties, just filled it up and went inside. She’s pretty – looks about how I’d imagine Junebug will look in ten years if she stays out of trouble.

A woman alone in this dark and isolated area has me thinking; Sin wouldn’t do anything stupid out here in the middle of nowhere, would he? I lean out my window to try to see in the store, but a big blue and white Valvoline sign blocks my view. Nah, he wouldn’t do anything – too risky. Of course, I don’t know  _how_ this bastard hunts. Maybe this is perfect.

As I’m ruminating on what hunting a human being would look and feel like, I see something odd across the parking lot.

Just past the trees at the back of the lot, I notice the bushes move and a shadow zig-zag across the pavement, ducking behind a dumpster by the building.

It’s dark-colored, maybe black, and I see it run across the lot again. It’s got to be a person, maybe someone pissing in the weeds; it’s too tall to be a dog. It rushes the tan car and dives into the back seat, closing the door behind it.

Sin’s door creaks open, and he and Garm pile in. He has nothing in his arms because he’s a goddamn bastard.

“Where’s my food?”

“I conveniently forgot,” he says, and he tosses me the jerky bag from his door. “I refuse to add insult to injury. When we camp, I’ll make you something decent.”

I throw the bag back in his face. “You’re an asshole.”

“Talk sense to a fool, and he calls you foolish,” he mutters, and he starts the truck.

“No, I called you an asshole,” I scoff. He’s about to pull out when I stop him. There is something not right about the world at this very moment in time, and I can feel it in my gut. “Can we wait a second?”

“Window,” he says.

I dismiss him with a wave and look back at the car. “I have ... Let’s just wait."

I can hear him stiffen in his seat, his eyes on me as I stare at that tan car. This is not right. The hairs on my neck are standing up, and my palms are wet. Garm feels it too, and scratches on my door. She whines, but Sin hisses and she falls deathly silent again.

The woman walks across the lot and gets into her car, backs it up, and heads out of the station. Without a word, I point to her car. Sin pulls out behind her, following her down the pitch black road.

“You going to share what this is about?” he asks.

I shush him, but he doesn’t need to be quiet, I just want him to shut his damn trap.

I can’t stop staring at the car. This northern region of the state seems to be mostly a mess of back roads through patches of woods. The car has a local Mississippi plate, blocky red numbers on a field of white, with  _Panola_ written across the bottom. As I’m staring at the plate, my eyes flick up to the shadow in the rear window.

“Flip your high beams,” I say. Sin hesitates but does as I say, and the shadow falls from view.

“Off,” I order, and he flicks back to his low beams. Her bright red tail lights flash briefly and the car slows, but moments later she’s inching ahead. That shadow creeps up, and I raise my hand. The high beams flood the car again, and the shadow drops.

“What am I looking at?” he asks.

“I don’t know. But it’s not good.”

We tail her for another half mile through the darkness, Sin flicking on and off the lights to drop that shadow out of the window. As we drive, the car starts to swerve and speed up, and then it slows and swerves again every time Sin flips his lights. We’re scaring her.

“What's your plan, Cowboy?”

I ignore him and keep my eyes locked on the car. There is something deep in my chest that is shaking with an uncontrollable urge to stop whatever is about to transpire. I can feel the imminent danger building in the air, like the static of an electrical storm, and I have to do something to stop it. That shadow is going to hurt someone; I can’t allow that to happen.

When Sin leaves his lights on and the shadow emerges despite them, he honks the horn. The driver panics and slams on the brakes, skidding into the twigs and gravel at the side of the road. Sin slows and pulls behind her. This is my chance, so I take it.

I rip open my door and drop to the moving ground. The woman is already ducking out when I yank open the back door and haul out the shadow. His fist swings at me, and something sharp glances off my hand. He has a knife. It swings by my face and I grab the blade, twisting it away as he falls on me. We tumble back and plunge into the weeds when a sharp pain pierces my chest.

His weight crushes the blade into my sternum, but my fingers are still wrapped around it. I grip and yank it from my chest. The handle cracks into the shadow’s teeth as his head snaps back, and I let go, flinging the knife into the brush.

He sits on my gut, dazed, blood pouring from his fractured teeth as we both gasp for air. When his eyes regain their focus, he lunges at my throat, gouging his nails into my skin.

I claw, gagging, as he throws his full weight against my neck. I can’t fucking breath, I can't see Sin, and I need my goddamn gun!

My hand gropes the dirt, grabbing a branch at my side, and I crack it against his temple. He collapses into a black pile next to me, and I roll away. I still can’t breathe, and my eyes burn – I can’t see – I can’t focus. I’ve lost my glasses, and I can’t stop choking.

The pile is moaning, and I crawl away, hacking into the dirt. I’m going to die. I’m going to die just like this, my face in the mud, and stabbed by a cocksucking shadow.

My chest is soaked; I press my fist against the wound to stop the gushing. The blood  _has_ to stop – I have to  _make_ it stop – because I’m not going to die on the side of the road, cut to hell and practically pissing my pants.

He’s not moving, but his wheezing echoes through the trees. This piece of shit was going to kill that woman. This son of a bitch was going to carve her up, and now I have a gaping hole in my chest and my palm is sliced to the bone. I can’t breathe, I can’t think, and someone needs to teach that bastard a lesson.

My chest burns so damn bad, but I inhale through the pain. I scramble to my knees; I need to run. I need to get the hell out of here, but I’m too dazed, and I can’t even open my hand – my throat burns and it won’t swallow. I need to get up and get away from this goddamn nightmare.

I force myself to my feet, but before I take off, I stop to catch my breath and look for Sin. His door is open, and he and the woman are gone. The woods are black and still, and as I start to back away from the shadow, a silver glint catches my eye. Just a few feet from my boot is the knife, covered in my own blood.

The moaning pile rolls onto its back, hacking out wet, snapping coughs. His chin is black with blood, and he looks like a broken marionette in the harsh glare of headlights.

I start to inch closer to the truck when his rocking head spots me. His bloody mouth grins, and all I can focus on are the gaping black holes where his teeth had been. The damn thing's still smirking at me, when it says, “That all you got, you fucking spaz?”

Is that … _all I've got?_

His grotesque grin turns into a barking laugh as he stares up at me from the ground.

_Is that all I've got?_

It isn’t blackness that consumes me. It’s a white, blinding heat.

It spreads through my body like a thick, potent venom. My skin feels the pricks of a thousand hooks across every inch of my body, and if my feet weren’t sinking into the mud, I’d think those hooks were lifting me straight into the air.

I have a choice, but since I am not a coward, and I am not a victim today, it’s the easiest choice I’ve ever had to make.

Like magic, my dripping hand is now heavy.

My fingers grip a cool, wooden handle against my palm.

A better man wouldn’t have picked it up at all.

A better man would have offered the shadow his hand and pulled it to its feet. He would have gotten that shadow the help it needed, and they would’ve parted ways, no harm done.

But I am not a better man. I am a man who knows that the twilight does not hide a shadow’s true intent. The twilight just obscures the shadow until the right light shines through the gloom and exposes it. I happen to have that light; I  _am_ that light, and I’m not a fan of being made a fool. So I find that grinning shadow as easily as if it were my own, and I show it just how funny I can be.


	13. Still Life with Rotting Fruit

The brain has an amazing ability to sequester excruciating pain. It can carve out a trench in the mind and allow that pain to flow down channels, narrowly missing the more important parts of your life. But when the brain doesn’t provide your body with these troughs through which to divert your misery, it has another amazing ability: to let that pain surge from the body like an unquenchable typhoon.

Waves will crash upon you. Water will gorge you, rising to overtake the world that brought you such agony. You will soar and sing with the boom of tidal currents breaking on rock, and it will feel as glorious as if you were moving mountains with your bare hands.

I moved more than just mounds of earth with mine. I moved an untouchable shadow with nothing but my fingers. I made it writhe and shriek and then fall silent because a shadow cannot speak; it’s simply unnatural for it to do so.

The shadow had eyes, but they weren’t black, and a shadow shouldn’t see, so I fixed it. The powerful glut I felt making these irreversible decisions ignited in my belly an appetite that needed gratifying. So I licked and I tasted and I swallowed to curb my hunger.

If I had to guess, I’d think I was sucking on a shiny new penny – two, in fact – one for each meaty hole where that shadow’s eyes had been, but nothing remains in my mouth – just that bitter, coppery tinge.

I gave the shadow a smile, but when it grew tired of laughing, I took it again like magic. The water welled up inside me; I felt it swell behind my heart until I let it flow through my hands so it could wash away my pain. I then sat on the damage that water had caused and recounted teeth, recounted ears, recounted eyes, and fixed this shadow’s face until there was nothing left to count.

I now sit, my knees on either side of its unmoving chest, focused on the brilliance of my handiwork. The shadow is still warm under me, a paradox, as there's no such thing as a warm shadow. I fixed that paradox, so that now it’s unnatural heat can fade, and when the dawn breaks, the shadow will be consumed, gone forever into the mouth of light. I restored a natural law.

Through the dense, dampening fog, I smell dirt. It is the marshy smell of sod that was once alive – decaying earth, like peat. Rotting logs … fungus … the floor of a living, breathing forest carpeted in deep, red soil – that is what I smell and what I taste. This living earth is drinking blood like a fine wine. It lets it pool on its tongue before swallowing it in a gluttonous gulp, allowing its rich, metallic notes to bloom and captivate its senses – a true earthly delight.

When I feel my chest rising and falling, I realize I can breathe again. The air is thick and dense. My throat stopped burning, but my palm still bites like a copperhead. It is a carnal red, my hand – carved like meat and rubbed in dirt. I want to lick it. I want to clean it. I want to taste my own pretty pennies.

My humming ears finally clear, only to be overcome with the symphony of cicadas that surround me. The shrill chirps sing to me through the haze and the murky veil lifts, returning me to the earth and the dark pile of flesh on which I perch.

My belly growls, and I’m suddenly overwrought. But something tells me those bottomless pits locked upon me won’t let me rest my hungry bones just yet.

Just beyond the juicy field of red where the shadow’s face had been, two knees kneel in the ruddy earth. Two hands are folded over thighs. The face is soft, and those fiery pits are studying me like a painting. They flow down me, consuming every inch of me, and I feel nude. He’s watching me – disrobing my red-stained body as I sit poised with a pile of overripe fruits between my knees. Those eyes slowly tip and lean in to absorb the details of my work, and the head shakes in awe at what the human hand is capable of creating.

His lips part to speak, but he stops, unable to bring himself to break my ghastly tableau with his tongue; but I want to hear him speak. I need help. I need a sympathetic friend to help me find my footing in this madness, because I know it’s madness, though I cannot find the strength to run away.

What was barely a nudge to this man was a catastrophic plunge to me, and I can see the pride radiating from his skin like a warm glow. Only God knows what’s happening below his navel now.

“Unpredictable,” he finally mumbles to himself.

I close my eyes when I hear his voice. It’s thick and heavy – a hot blanket spreading across my back. That warmth approaches my chest, and a palm slides along my neck to cup my cheek. His hand reeks of a sweet perfume, sickly and rosy – far from his normal aroma of moss and cigarettes. Fingers lift my chin and he takes my mouth in his, and I pass those pretty pennies to his tongue.

My eyes finally open when his teeth release my lip, and I stare into those gaping wells again. They’re no longer simply damp and muddy at the bottom; they’re brimming with red water now, and I damn near drown where I sit. He salvages what’s left of me before I sink and lays my head on his shoulder so I can rest my broken body and feel his heart beat in unison with my own.

I am free-falling from grace, and there is no ground on which to crack my skull and end it.

I am overflowing with an insatiable appetite, and my belly is begging to be fed.

I am plunging into oblivion, a hot black hole of destruction, and it is terrifying, but at least he is with me in that darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occasionally, I will deconstruct parts of this fic and include links to those notes at the end of a chapter, like this:
> 
> My [chapter 13 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/04/06/unhitched-chapter-13-still-life-with-rotting-fruit/).


	14. Horse and Rabbit Stew

I wake up gagging when my mouth and nose are filled with a hot, iron-rich huff of air. My eyes snap open to see the outline of Garm’s curious face resting on my belly. She's staring at me through the darkness, wide awake and whining softly.

I don't want to worry her so, despite my aching face, I grin, and she sits up, revealing the fresh bandage taped across the wound on my chest. I scratch behind her ear and find that my hand’s been wrapped, too, with a swathe of gauze that's more dark red than it is white.

I've been stashed in the sleeper of the unmoving truck, and even though the curtain’s open, I can't see more than my hands and Garm's snuffing face.

The sharp twinges around my heart make it damn near impossible to sit up painlessly, but I know my aspirin's in one of the compartments by my head. I grope around until I find it and fish out three tablets. I can't remember anything or hear my own inner voice. With how banged up I feel, I’m just stuck in an exhausted survival mode at this point.

My throat ignites when I swallow, but I push through it. My neck is sore, and my body is nothing but a thousand tender bruises stitched together and throbbing. Even if I could think, I'm not sure I'd want to. I’ve blacked out most of whatever happened to me, and the rest can just fade away as far as I’m concerned.

There’s a noise outside – a faint crackling. A door or window must be open, and I need to get that fresh air. More than air, I need water, and I need to find out what happened to Sin.

I force myself up and crawl agonizingly over the console, slipping into my seat to catch my breath. Out my window, I’m floored by a completely different scene than the one I last remember.

There is no blood, no tan sedan lit up by headlights, not even the edge of a road. There is just a mirror, stretched out across the land. The sky is a deep cobalt blue with a patchwork of clouds strewn across it. It’s dark, but that twilight blue is being reflected off a lake and scattered into the air. A few ripples drift across the surface of the water which extends to a far-off hill covered in trees. The ground of this secluded alcove is rocky and open and leads right down to the water. On the shore is a campfire, stacked with split logs, and blazing three-feet high.

Sin’s standing between the fire and the water, his face lit by the glow as he stares into the flames that seem to twist and unfurl to the beat of the erratic pulsing in my ears.

My door was left cracked so I slide out to the ground, falling to my knees in the stones. My body feels listless – a wisp of smoke hovering above the dirt – and yet thick and heavy like wet wool. My head's just as cloudy, and I worry I may be deaf until Garm jumps down and skitters in the stones next to me. The commotion draws Sin out of his fiery meditation, and he ambles over the shore toward us.

When he reaches me, he holds out a Thermos. Bless this man a thousand times over.

I drop the lid and chug it, choking and gasping between mouthfuls.

“Slow down,” he says. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

I’m already sick. My body is starving itself, and my mind is diseased. I ignore him and quench my insatiable thirst with the rest of the water and drop the Thermos, leaning my bare back against the cold, metal foot rail.

“Where are we?”

“Still Mississippi. I took a service road since this area is cordoned off. Seems quiet enough. We’ve managed to stay undisturbed for three days.”

Three days? How the hell could that be?

My head is still pounding. “You’re going to have to fill in a few holes, Sin.”

He offers his sooty hand. “Come down to the fire – warm up.”

I’m hoisted to my feet, and without so much as a nod, he carefully wraps my arm around his neck. It feels like overkill until I take a step, my knees buckle, and he grabs me again. A burning erupts across my chest and I gasp.

“Careful,” he says, “He didn’t go deep, but he twisted it.”

Hearing him say _he_ sends a sickening wave through me that weakens my legs again. Broken memories rush me: a glint – the blood – that faceless shadow. Diesel fills my nose, then wet dirt – clay – rust …

My knees plunge to the rocks, and he drops with me, yanking me against his chest.

That handle feels heavy in my hand; my mouth turns dry and coppery; cheap perfume wafts around me, and I gag.

Why can’t I breathe? I can’t get air into my lungs again. They won't fill.

My heart races – I feel sick, and I’m falling; I’m sick, and I can’t get my throat to open …

“Just inhale,” he says, and I gulp a mouthful of air. “Keep breathing, Cowboy … go slowly … be deliberate.”

I flinch when I'm hit with a heart-wrenching wail, but it's bellowing from my own mouth. I can’t fill my lungs because they’re already filled with an uncontrollable sobbing.

It hurts to cry, but I can’t stop it.

I can’t believe I’m alive … and what I’ve done is horrific ... I'm a murderer – a sick, psychotic killer who butchered an innocent person. What have I done?

When my body slumps away, Sin pulls me closer, cradling my face against his warm neck.

How did I get here? Why did I sleep for three days and how am I going to live with myself now? What is he trying to do to me?

I push away, but his hands grip my neck and bare skin, and I'm drawn back to his body.

"Breathe, Cowboy; process your thoughts. Let it all out before you calm down."

That has never been a good idea. I can feel my body fight to control my cries, but it's futile. With his permission, I don't fear the repercussions of hysteria.

"What did I do?" I sob.

"You did what you had to do, Cowboy."

"I'm sick."

"You need to eat, son. You'll be able to think after you eat."

"I'm sick in the head," I cry.

"No, you're overwhelmed and confused and need some time to recover."

"No … I'm insane – I've lost it … They were right – I'm crazy."

"Do you want to test that theory?"

Do I what? Do I want him to prove I'm insane? Hasn't he done that already?

He loosens his grip, and I realize he's waiting for me to answer him. What happens if I'm right? What if I'm wrong?

I can't think so I settle back in his arms and nod against his shoulder.

"Imagine that you're visiting a psychiatric hospital," he begins, "You want to meet with the head doctor to access your sanity."

"I don't like this test," I choke out.

"Bear with me … You ask the doctor how he determines the extent of the madness within a patient. The doctor agrees to show you and leads you into a quiet room with a bathtub."

Sweat drips from my face and I really don't like where this is going ...

I have to stifle another choking gag before he continues, "The doctor says, 'We fill this tub with water and give the patient a spoon, a cup, and a bucket. We then ask them to empty it. What that patient chooses determines his level of madness.'"

That's not how they access madness – that's not even close. "I don't understand ..."

"What would you pick, Cowboy? A spoon, a cup, or a bucket?"

What is this? What's he trying to prove? The answer's obvious ... what is he talking about?

"The spoon, the cup, or the bucket," he repeats. "What's your choice?"

I try to think through the fog in my head until I finally blurt, "The bucket. A normal person would pick the bucket; it's the biggest."

"A normal person would remove the plug and let the water drain itself. Maybe I was wrong. You might be insane, Cowboy."

I huff and listen to him snicker against my cheek. He just messing with me now. I sniff my nose, and when the stones shifts under us, I rest my chest against him. I can feel myself crumbling into a thousand pieces, but I have to commend him; he's trying his damnedest not to lose any.

Then his voice rumbles against my neck again, “Want me to sing you Rocket Man?”

Like an idiot, I laugh through the tears this time.

It feels good to hear him laugh too – deep and dark – and my body relaxes when his fingers drag through my hair. We rock just like that until my heart slows, and I can breathe normally.

After a few minutes, Garm trots from the shadows to nuzzle and lick my face. Sin finally releases me, and I tip back to sit on the ground in front of him.

"I don't really remember …" I say.

He nods and stands, offering his hand again. “Let’s get to the fire.”

Down at the shore, we sit together on the ashy ground several feet from the fire. Every few minutes a loud blubbering moan stutters from my chest and echoes across the water. I can’t stifle them, and it’s embarrassing, but Sin doesn’t say a word; he just stares at the swirling flames.

The cicadas are almost overwhelmed by the crickets here, and you can hear the braying croaks of bullfrogs across the lake. It’s peaceful, and if this were any other time in my life, I’d ask Sin to go fishing with me in the morning. I could desperately use a couple hours of sanity where I’m not running from the law, or attacking people, or being stabbed by shadows in the darkness.

Out of curiosity, I lean over and look down towards the cattails by the water.

“See something?” he asks.

I lean back with a sigh. “No. Just looking for nightcrawlers.”

He huffs and asks, “Are you ready to eat?”

Am I ready to eat? I had almost forgotten that food was even a thing the body needs. Food has always been this nuisance in my life. I had to forage for myself for years. Then I felt obligated to feed the strays and the homeless, often from my own plate. Then I spent years cooking for a wife who turned up her nose at every dish that wasn’t from a box or a can. And now I’ve spent almost a year filling my gut with piss poor coffee and grub from greasy spoons … Am I ready to eat? No, I think need another year to get my appetite back.

Sin crouches behind the fire and messes with something that sizzles every time he touches it. Behind him on a log sits two bowls, and now I’m intrigued.

What did he cook? He said he was going to make me something, but that was days ago, and now we’re in the middle of nowhere. I highly doubt he stopped at a grocery store while I bled out in the sleeper.

He brings me a steaming metal bowl and a spoon, setting it on the ground next to me. What is this glop he’s serving me – jerky stew?

“It’s hot,” he says. “So don’t gulp it.”

I dredge up chunks from the bottom of the bowl. “Venison?”

“Yep.” He's still staring at the fire.

What a liar. His own bowl’s cooling on the ground next to him, and I think I’d feel better if he takes the first bite. I abandon my spoon and go back to hugging my knees, even though it makes my chest ache.

I will admit that the sludge he served might not be pretty, but the smell is making me feel the way southern barbecue does – piggish, with a hint of anxiety that there might not be enough for everyone; it is a very small bowl.

Several minutes pass and he’s still sitting there like a statue, doing nothing but giving his cigarette a lengthy blow job. He’s not even looking at the bowl, just the fire. Why is the fire suddenly so much more important than food? He went to all this trouble to make the damn stew, and now he’s not even going to eat it? It’s probably congealed by now, son of a bitch. And I know he’s going to keep calling it venison, too, like it’s some sort of sick joke … I wonder if this is "venison" from his "guy in Colorado."

My bowl’s still steaming, so I know it can’t be that cold, but Sin’s just smoking away. I stir mine again and get hit in the face with a sweet, earthy spice. I can’t take it anymore – I’m starving, and this asshole is taunting me. He’s doing this on purpose because he wants me to cave.

“Well, you sadistic bastard – if you think for a second that you’re going to control me, you better think again.”

He looks over at me, his eyes narrowed, and I realize I said that out loud. I ignore his cocked head and go back to staring at the fire, myself. Jesus Christ, I’m a goddamn lunatic.

“I’m not interested in forcing you to do anything,” he says, “I just figured you’d want to finish what you started.”

What the hell does that mean? “Finish what?”

“Him.” He nods to the bowl.

Him? Wait, this is him?

He stirs his soup and elaborates, “You had him raw, but you may prefer him cooked.”

“Raw? What are you talking about?” My face goes slack as memories flash through my head like a cryptic snuff film. I ate something that night. I remember chewing and swallowing. I remember something popping in my mouth and tasting copper, salt, and a whole host of other morbid flavors before I gulped it down like it was candy. What the hell was it?!

“Eat,” he says. “You need your strength.”

I don’t like him ordering me around, but I’m still ravenous, and despite my grotesque little memory, he’s right. I will never recover from these wounds if I don’t eat something. I’m honestly surprised my malnourished brain let me wake up at all.

I pick up my bowl, somewhat protesting with a glare, and scoop a meager spoonful into my watering mouth.

While my mind hesitates, considering the origins of these grisly ingredients, my mouth is more than happy to enjoy them. What appears to be just camping fodder – a thick brown gravy, flecked with black and filled with chunks of meat – is actually sweet, and not nearly as gamey as I was imagining.

“This is … not bad,” I admit.

He finally begins eating. “You sound surprised.”

“You act like this is normal.”

“It is to me.”

I shake my head, and a second heaping spoonful of this thick, hot soup engulfs my tongue. It’s like my stomach hasn’t tasted sustenance in months, and now my mouth is overwhelmed by an uncontrollable explosion of richness: the sweetness of onions, the heat of black pepper, and an unidentifiable woody tang that makes the whole experience entirely too sensual.

“What’s in this? I mean, aside from the venison?”

“Herbs, spices, wine, normal things,” he says.

“After all the shit we just went through and being on the run from the cops, you cooked a stew with wine over a fire in the middle of Nowhere, Mississippi?”

“There’s always time for a proper meal, and I’m not running from anyone,” he says.

“Except vicariously through me, and I’m actually being charged with your murder. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that,” I say, between bites.

He looks up at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You _just_ killed a man,” he says. “And you’re eating him – right now, in fact.”

Well, yeah, but what I said is still true.

“I don't really remember what happened," I say again, "Do you mind filling in the holes … ?”

This conversation doesn’t even register on an awkward scale. I’m having a frank discussion about what transpired when I blacked out and attacked someone in cold-blood ... while I eat said someone.

There is a filter suddenly missing from my mind. I dropped it three days ago – it’s my irrationality filter, I think, so now I’m only left with whatever this is: some sort of senseless and increasingly morbid conversation about topics that go beyond society’s taboos. These are the topics better suited for Satan’s Thanksgiving dinner table, not average people around a campfire.

Of course, I’m not sure we could be considered average. In fact, I hope we aren’t.

I rub the bandage on my chest and elaborate, “I don’t remember much beyond opening the back of the car. What happened to the girl?”

“She fled and I stopped her.”

“Did you kill her?”

“I subdued her … after she called me her hero,” he snickers.

Oh, the irony. “Why would she call you her hero?” I wonder, then frown as my spoon scrapes the bottom of my empty bowl.

The _Hero_ offers his hand to me, and I toss him my bowl.

“She assumed I was trying to help her. She even hugged me.” He chuckles and stands to refill both bowls, returning more hot soup to me only moments later, and then sits back down and continues, “I knocked her out and left her in the car. You were in the throes of your onslaught, so I enjoyed that, cleaned your injuries, loaded up our dinner companion here, and then we headed south. Nothing exciting."

Nothing exciting. Of course not.

“Your behavior was a bit disconcerting, though,” he continues, “You disassociated, and while you still seemed in control, I was beginning to question your motives.”

My motives? I saw him hide in her car; he was going to kill her. "I had an obligation as an _actual_ good Samaritan. There’s still a decent person hiding inside me, despite you. I might be a coward, but I’m not going to stand by and watch someone else get hurt; we differ greatly in that respect.”

“So you had a social obligation to remove the face of her would-be attacker, good Samaritan? That feels a little extreme, though I’m not complaining; you put on a hell of a show."

I did snap, but I wasn’t performing for him. It felt more like an out-of-body experience than an attack, so I barely remember the details.

“I wasn’t putting on a show for you, and I’ve always felt the need to protect people that are vulnerable. Why I did exactly what I did, I don’t know. But that shadow did not get to decide her fate that night – I wasn’t going to allow that.”

“No, you’re right. He didn’t decide her fate – _you_ did. You decided both of their fates. How does that make you feel?”

“I saved her life.”

“And you took his. How does that make you feel, Cowboy?”

“She was going to die,” I say again. “It wasn’t really a choice because my hands were tied.”

“You _chose_ to spare the girl at the expense of her attacker. You decided who deserved to live and who did not. How did that make you feel?”

I know how it made me feel because I’ve been chasing that feeling all my life. I have yearned for it, begged for it, and even fucking prayed for it. My father said I’d never get it, and for thirty-seven years he was right.

“How did that make you feel, Cowboy?”

I pause and savor my last bite of soup before I finally admit, “Powerful.”

Hero nods and grins with that smug satisfaction of his, and returns his attention to his bowl.

“How did it make _you_ feel?” I wonder.

“Honestly?” he asks, and I nod. “It made me proud.”

“You’re one sick son of a bitch,” I scoff, and I throw my spoon at him, sending it skittering across the ground.

He snickers to himself and pours the last of his dinner onto his tongue. Why must he assault everything with his goddamn mouth? He licks the bowl, then pops his cigarette between his lips, leans back on his hands, and starts fucking the fire with his eyes again.

My bowl is empty, and I don’t feel like I’m about to vomit, which surprises me for a multitude of reasons. This whole situation – the loss of my truck, the multiple murders at this point, the disturbing menu Hero’s preparing, and, hell, even Hero himself – is certainly not what I was intending to get tangled up in when I started hauling steel.

I feel at odds with myself, uneasy and anxious, like I’m fishtailing over ice and about to careen into a crowd of gawkers, oblivious to me as they stare up at a sky full of stars. There’s nothing I can do. I’m on a collision course, and my only option is to sit back and watch the bloodbath. That’s the way I feel, anyway … not that I’m going to let something that horrific happen.

Hero can justify his murder all he wants, but I still think his “eye for an eye” bull is a crock of shit. At least I saved a girl’s life.

Of course, I don’t really know anything about the girl.

“The driver …” I say, “What was she like?”

Hero looks over and squints his eyes. “Blonde,” he mumbles around his smoke.

“Yeah, I know, but her personality … did you get a good read on her? She seem like a nice girl?”

He stares at me for a minute, his eyes flicking between my pupils. “She seemed like a churchgoer.”

What the hell’s that mean? I’ve known churchgoers; they aren’t saints. “What else?”

“She stank,” he says.

“I noticed. What about her family? Did she mention kids?”

He pulls the cigarette from his lips and cocks an eyebrow. “Is your conscious getting antsy, Cowboy?”

“I would’ve liked to have gotten to talk to her – maybe calm her down. I doubt you took the time to check if she was alright before you cracked her head against her car door.”

“What if I told you she was giving her younger brother a ride home ... and that she suffers every day with a terminal illness that cannot be cured? She’s ill and in excruciating pain, and society says she can’t end her own life. And let’s say in her brother’s spare time, he rescues puppies. How do you feel now?”

Why in God's name do I keep sleeping with this asshole? I can’t stand him. Every chance he gets, he goads the shit out of me.

“I feel like you aren’t as funny as me,” I snap, but he has a valid point. I didn’t know her, and I didn’t know the man I defaced. I made a snap judgment call that took a man’s life, and I just hoped I wasn’t doing the wrong thing.

My hand throbs and I look down to watch it seeps into my bandage. “But he had a knife – a sharp one."

“Her brother was a meat man.”

“Who takes his knives home with him?” I scoff.

“It’s no less plausible than the story you’re making up. Crazy knife-wielding shadow hides in the backseat of a pretty lady’s car, ready to stab her as she drives, which would most likely lead to both their deaths upon impact.”

I want to punch him in the face just to ruin that devilish smile or blacken one of those red eyes of his.

“That sounds far more likely than your puppy and meat man story,” I mutter, and I can hear him snickering at my sorry ass. "And don't forget that he stabbed _me."_

"We were following _them._ And you attacked first. He was defending himself," he says.

No ... no. That's not how that how it happened. My heads shaking but I seem to have lost my ability to formulate a thought and then speak it aloud, so he carries on without me.

“I understand your decision to attack; it’s rational,” he admits with a snicker. “What I’m curious about is your execution.”

“What about it?”

“What you did wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t even impulsive. It was a reenactment.”

Oh, please … "And what was I reenacting exactly?”

He leans over and taps three times on my skull likes he’s knocking on a damn door. “Something from in here. Something you’ve been dwelling on for a very long time – long enough to know exactly what to do if the opportunity arose.”

“I freaked out, that’s all it was. I was terrified. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.”

“You sliced up his face like a Christmas ham, Cowboy.”

“I had just been attacked! I was defending myself!”

“From what?!” he snaps. “A stern gaze? A crooked nose? Or was it his tongue that offended you so much?”

If I didn’t think I’d fall flat on my face, I’d storm away – back to the cab to get my glasses and maybe fitfully read alone for an eternity. But no – it’s better that I stay by the fire and face this asshole head-on. He thinks he knows me. He thinks he understands how I tick.

What’s he trying to get me to admit, anyway? I saved a woman’s life. What the hell does it matter _how_ I saved her? She’s alive and a bad guy is dead … end of story.

“Whose face were you removing?” he wonders aloud. “Wifey? Mommy?” He cocks his head. “Daddy, maybe?”

“I attacked a knife-wielding shit-for-brains who was about to kill an innocent woman! I’m done talking about this.”

“I’m not,” he says with a grin.

“Too bad!”

He shakes his head and bites his lip. “I’m disappointed, Cowboy.”

“Get over it."

“You shouldn’t be lying to me.”

“When have I lied?”

“Your shadow would be number six, but something tells me your count might be off.”

I don’t know where to look when I’m filled with this much rage. If I close my eyes I see red. If I keep them open I see him. I want to stare him down, glaring back with the same intensity that he uses on me constantly ... but I can’t; it hurts too much.

My eyes snap back to staring at the hot embers until I can feel my eyeballs dry up and tighten without my glasses to protect them.

“Not six,” he continues. “It was far too beautiful for number six. But why would you lie about that?”

“Piss off,” I snap, and bury my chin in my knees. He can go to hell. I’m not sharing any more of my past with this cretin. He can enjoy his little games of twisted logic, but I’m not playing anymore.

“You ready for bed, then?” he says, grinning as he stares at my hiding face.

“I’m sleeping out here – on the ground. _My_ choice."

And then, that pervert above sends a bolt of lightning across the sky, and Hero smiles and stands as the thunder rolls in.

“Suit yourself, Cowboy. When you’re ready, I’ll warm you up again.”

That goddamn snake …

He casually scoops up the dutch oven from the other side of the fire and heads up to the truck as the first raindrops hiss on the hot embers. I don’t even spin my dumb damn wheel this time. What’s the point? I’m sick and I have a chest wound; I can’t afford to get pneumonia out here.

I rock to my feet and hastily kick apart the fire in a smoky rage, scattering glowing coal and ash all over the bank. That cocksucker better keep his goddamn hands to himself, or there’s no telling what I might decide to carve up next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More commissioned art by [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com)! Simply stunning. <3
> 
> Art: [Horse & Rabbit Stew](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/XXWKJQB8eDQlOjbrEFtAsGhdNyrNqFmohSbxE06FH3Lot7f7cnrH9YdiXYUzhZm5M3JfoZidMGebhsWKmLjSYYZJ2YsuHA7B6VATP21eXKjQwswPbK_f1-_5iSKpwhym-W7VCrx9_Ul1huVtQgDy96cJJ0zh4lykOtE0vXttEs5G4b8y_sS2tQqxy8YVmRIpCwVcqfsUQP7U3-eI_VvpxwJPVV4GGGK2-AywsXqk0OUOnq6U3nJN1mKPRuLoiVxJMFv-tmboHm0Q7NV4nuGSJQ3kzGGYLBrfJ20gScznbGmgJMmPAsddor6yIDp87gbiUGwKqOsut3IGHsn4hSBfQGdeN3-fJI1KFsnrF019h9TOBF_rqsJPfYc_IOMzytI8CaWmob8N6EKnkfseuDxaVlFj1xx8JzoMyLg_yR1OTAjv9uiV3gjzyEyA0h2Y-58-Ru6f-_7YgFMYqoZq6JwVg_y4YXCA4TK-Pc3iZbH5ySfqQ3ugJsOHzbv7n5roKOtm5Yma0V2FqhfH85mEGNWWOWoB4q6PGgA40bp8uslimZrfjKBqwIXauj1hW4JnvC5tVarMPWe2mQjvGkiHBYpUgoBFZEx3f1trxp6zFrybt9SDlKZyBMWHhNlNIRsonVE5h4v0z7GEXpGWdVjK4ZwfuNDsyMc5zYdNjw=w593-h753-no) by [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com/post/169118994637/horse-rabbit-stew-eat-he-says-you-need)


	15. Ride Out the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gifted to Vitas because I appreciate every comment and love giving readers what they want, and also [flatfootmonster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flatfootmonster) 'cause of the kink.

“Don’t think for a second that you know anything about me,” I say as I climb into the truck. The bastard’s in his seat, already shirtless and shaking his head at my rant. “Do you honestly believe that I don’t know what’s going on here? I’m not your goddamn pet.”

“I never thought you were,” he says, and he starts stripping off his pants. Why the hell is he getting undressed?

“Just leave your goddamn pants _on_ tonight, okay?”

He cocks his head like it's such a bizarre request and snickers. “How are we supposed to fuck you with my pants still on?”

Goddamn it – I want to strangle him until his eyes pop out. “You don’t! And you can keep your hands to yourself. I’m not your toy.”

“No hands,” he agrees, and he mockingly flashes me his empty palms.

“And I don’t want your dick touching me either. I’m not waking up tomorrow covered in … you. Just no touching, got it?”

“My intentions will remain honorable,” he mumbles, and I swear to god he rolls his eyes.

If I thought I could throw a punch without injuring my chest, I would. I don’t know how much longer I can stand this prick’s constant antagonism.

He crawls over the console and into the bed, and after our long talk by the smoky fire, all I can focus on is how tight my throat is. It feels as sore and bruised as my aching chest. My body is falling apart as quickly as my mind.

Though rest at this point in my recovery is imperative, after three days of solid sleep, my mind is unwilling to squelch its brewing storm. I could go for a walk, but the sky is being lit up by its own summer tempest, and I refuse to be pelted with hail.

Hero’s in bed, turned towards the wall and lying on his belly, but he’s flopping like a fish out of water. It must be the impending storm because I feel at odds with the world too. There’s a buildup of static in the air, and it won’t let anyone rest.

Instead of rolling around in bed like an idiot, I dig through the box at my feet, which is still filled with bits of my old life, and find _Sirens_. I crack it open and just start reading to get my mind out of this murderous hell and firmly set in a much more peaceful environment like the war zone of Mars, or the barren, inescapable caverns of Mercury ...  

> … The bounties of space, of infinite outwardness, were three: empty heroics, low comedy, and pointless death ...

Son of a bitch … _pointless death?_ Let’s say, hypothetically, that the shadow was a meat man _–_ what if he also prayed on unthinking, drunk women? Maybe he was a bus driver who diddled kids – it’s possible. He could’ve been a meat man in the same vein as Hero’s Colorado guy. But I guess Colorado guy has no idea he’s processing long pig.

Intent is everything, after all … and black clothes and a shiny knife are both very intentional. No butcher takes his knives home. No brother scrambles across an empty lot and dives into the backseat of his sister’s darkened car. Intent – his _intent_ was to kill her. What I did was right. I saved her life and I should be proud of myself.

I flip further into the book and clear my thoughts. Just read – just enjoy your book, and ignore the asshole obnoxiously clearing his throat behind you. 

> … There is room enough for an awful lot of people to be right about things and still not agree …

Goddamn it ... Hero is not right. You can’t play God. You can’t choose who gets to live and die based on your own bizarre moral code; it’s not that easy. Society has rules as to who is good and who is bad, and we all know them. We all have a lifetime of opportunities – missed or taken – that lead us down paths of fairness or corruption.

But then who’s to say whose code is more ethical than others? Our childhood, circumstances, and personal ambitions all affect our sense of morality and justice.

That gray, amorphous blob of moral ambiguity is hanging over me again so I give it a one-finger salute. I’ve always hated that dubious color. It never commits – light black, dark white – it could be a shiny coin, a silver lining, dirty dishwater, or the color of a murderer’s hair ...

I can’t do this. I can barely focus on reading with the racket Hero’s making. He’s flipping around behind me again, stretching and rolling his shoulders. He has the whole bed to himself – what’s his goddamn deal?

“Turn off the damn light!” he barks.

“No!”

He yanks the curtain closed in a huff, and I go back to my book.  

> … There was nothing offensive in this love. That is to say, it wasn’t homosexual. It couldn’t be, since Salo had no sex. He was a machine.

That’s it – I slam the book closed and toss it in the box – enough of this shit. The walls of this little coffin are creeping in on me now that the curtain’s cordoning off the murderer from the only decent person in this dark triad. Garm’s still crashing through the lake, chasing snakes and snapping at the last embers to float over the dampening fire. Maybe I should join her and let the _hero_ get his murder sleep. If he clears his throat one more fucking time, I swear to God ...

The gravity of the last, apparently, _three_ days is becoming oppressive again, but I stifle it all as I focus on my hands in the dim light. One is clean and unmarred, still adorned with my dull, loveless ring. My other hand’s bound and claw-like, wrapped in dirty gauze. The last memory I recall, my hands were covered in the shadow’s blood. Hero cleaned me up; he washed my wounds and wiped the blood from my face and arms. I wonder if he did it out of necessity, or if it was just another part of his sick perversion; he probably loves galavanting in blood.

He missed some under my fingernails, though, and the dried blood now looks black. Shadows don’t bleed; I remember thinking that ... but that one did – a lot, in fact. He bled so much that the earth couldn’t drink it fast enough. That bastard had _intent,_ no doubt about that. He was attempting to do far worse things to that woman, and I knew it – I could feel it. Even Garm could feel the destructive nature buried inside him. What I did was restore peace. I am a peace keeper. I fixed the shadow; I didn’t murder him. He can’t follow people now; he can’t hurt anybody. I have the power to stop malevolent shadows, and I do. I have the power to shine light in dark corners. I have the power to restore balance to this inequitable world.

I furiously grind my nails into my jeans until the last black specks disappear and my fingers are raw. I have the power to take control. My life is _my_ life – not Hero’s, not my father’s, not my ex’s – _mine._

If I want to use my life to restore balance, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Who’s going to stop me? In fact, why would they? After the terrible shit I did to that family, I owe the world – I owe the universe – retributive justice. An eye for an eye. An innocent for a sinister. I took four innocents, and I will take four sinisters.

“Cowboy, turn off the fucking light!” he barks again.

Goddamn it!

I rip open the curtain. “What’s your fucking problem?!”

His smoldering eyes are glaring at me, and he’s leaning on his elbows. “I can’t sleep with the light on,” he calmly states.

“You’ll get used to it!” I yell, but his black eyes tell me he’s definitely unhappy with whatever's going on here. “I’m not going to sit here in the dark,” I snap.

“Then go to sleep.”

This demanding son of a bitch thinks he can order me around like a goddamn dog, and fuck me, it’s working. I want to go outside, but the storm’s rolling over us. I want to read, but I’m pissing off the murder-hero with my light. I want to lay down, but not with that massive jackass breathing all over my neck.

I grit my teeth, kick off my shoes, clamber over the console, and crawl into bed, sliding off the dome switch as I lie back. “Are you happy now?”

He ignores me and lies back down. Good, go to sleep. I think the _venison_ and aspirin are finally kicking in, because I’m actually feeling a little more human despite the monstrosities I’ve committed. I can now fully appreciate the waves of anxiety washing over me, and it’s all simply not fair. I shouldn’t feel like this. _I_ should’ve been the girl’s hero, not him. I _needed_ to see the face of the person I saved, but all I saw was the mutilated head of the shadow whose face I stole.

And why did I have to strip off its face? That’s a person’s identity, and that shadow was a person. How could I be so vile – so ruthless – with another human being? I could’ve buried that knife in his heart and ended it quickly. I could’ve justified that – he’d already stabbed me in the damn chest – but I didn’t. I sat on his belly and let him suffer through a torturous rampage that could only be rivaled by the wrath of God. I listened to his agonizing cries – cries I’ve heard before, on a similar stretch of a road in the same bleakness of night when I’d been careless and cowardly in my youth.

The details of the shadows attack are few and far, just out of reach in my dimly lit mind – there were ears, then they were gone; there was a grin, and then it tore open; I looked into eyes, and then they both gushed to black.

I still regret not seeing the girl. The shadow’s death is meaningless without confirmation of life. But this isn’t a goddamn competition with Hero. This is a question of morality. A person is dead because of me, and I can’t forget that.

My thoughts are interrupted again when Hero rolls over, and I’m left with the hard wad growing inside his jeans embedded in my ass. I clearly remember saying, not ten minutes ago: no dicks.

“Is this just how it is now?” I say over my shoulder. “You rubbing yourself against me like I’m a bitch in heat?”

“It’s a small bed ... and speaking of bitches,” he says, “do you ever stop complaining?” I crack him in the ribs with my elbow, but he catches my arm and yanks it until I hiss at the burn igniting across my sternum. He whispers in my ear, “Let’s not start that,” but he does eventually release me. Now he’s gotten to do exactly what he loves most – he got to put me in my place like I'm just a naughty little boy.

“Are you done?” I snap.

“I haven’t even started,” he snickers, and I pull the blanket over my shoulder.

There is a long, uncomfortable pause and I can _hear_ him thinking. It’s a faint clicking like an old watch you have to wind every day.

When the ticking stops he says, “There is no mercy in nature, Cowboy. There is only life and death. Don’t punish yourself for what you have no ability to control.”

“Mercy is necessary to function as a society,” I snap. “I had no right to do anything to him.”

“Mercy is a creation of man.”

“Cruelty is also a creation of man,” I say.

“A gift we gave ourselves. But death is not a gift; it is an inevitability, and death is of far greater value than mercy.”

“Death, yes. Murder, not in the least. Don't try to feed me that bull.”

“Murder is another construct of man. The falcon hunts the stork, it doesn’t murder it.”

“But morality is what separates us from animals.”

“So does art, and yet we find beauty in a spider’s web. It’s still a hunter’s trap used to kill. That doesn’t make it any less awe-inspiring.”

I’m not waxing philosophically with him again; I refuse. I know humans are essentially well-governed beasts, but that doesn’t give us an excuse to abandon ethics to lead hedonistic lives whenever we want.

Hero’s humming to himself, and that ticking echoes in my ear until he says, “What you did was righteous, Cowboy, and how you did it was beautiful.”

Only a monster would find what I did beautiful. “I don’t even know what that means,” I say.

He snickers and rubs his face against my neck. “It means I’m impressed.”

Knowing that Hero is impressed with me does, unfortunately, take the edge off. I’ve never been one to impress anyone, unless I’m impressive in how disappointing I am. But I don’t think I can see what Hero sees. I didn’t see beauty in the mess I made three days ago. I saw chaos. I saw pain. I _felt_ pain. It wasn’t until Hero pulled me to his chest that I felt any sense of relief, and that was solely because it was over. I desperately wanted the shadow out of my world, but in the end, staring down at its corpse brought me no satisfaction – just guilt.

I sigh as I find myself once again adrift in a sea of moral ambiguity, and then Hero, probably sensing my rampant self-loathing, presses his chin against my neck and murmurs, “I want you in the worst possible way.”

My mind careens into another brick prison wall in my head, one that I didn't even know was there, and all rational thought grinds to a halt. What does that mean, he _wants_ me ... ? No one wants me. My father doesn't even want me, and how could he, after what I've taken from him? People _put up_ with me, but no one has ever _wanted_ me, especially not enough to say that shit out loud. 

A sense of smug satisfaction unexpectedly begins to tingle across my skin. I think I could use Hero’s _wants_ to my advantage.

And what does he mean _the worst possible way?_ Isn't the worst possible way of wanting someone to want them _dead?_

“And what way’s that?” I breathe over my shoulder.

He trails his nose up the back of my neck and says, “I want to be your shadow.”

He wants to be my _shadow_ … That could mean a thousand different things, but seeing as this guy’s nuts, and his hand just unsnapped my pants, I have a sneaking suspicion as to where this is going. Now, I said no sex, but no one has ever _wanted me in the worst possible way_ before – so I may have to make an exception.

I’ve never ripped open my pants so fast after hearing such lurid nothings whispered in my ear. I don’t know why, but since that messed up day, all I’ve wanted was to get lost in this antagonistic bastard and feel human again, even if that human is merciless, or cruel, or just a product of a degenerating society.

The bloody gauze on my hand snags and tears away as I wrench off and kick my pants into the front seat. I turn over to find him lecherously prowling behind me, a Jabberwock waiting to confuse and attack me with his forked tongue. He hauls me to his chest and his mouth devours me as I slay him with my own.

I’ll never fully understand his desperation when we touch. He seems trapped in an unending abstinence of carnal pleasure, forced to find his only sexual gratification in the heat of a smoke brushing his lips, or a spoon lazily dragging over his tongue – that is until he finally has me at his whim.

When his frenzied hands wrench me over his body, I don’t object, though I probably should, considering the morbidity I currently associate with being on top of a violent, groaning beast.

My tongue is enjoying the bitterness of his neck, when he shoves me back from his body like he wants me to stop. As I sit up, confused and forcing my lungs to expand through the pain radiating from my bruised chest, I catch his hands trailing down the skin of my naked stomach. They rest on his jeans, unbuttoning and tugging them open while he stares at me.

I crawl down his legs, dragging his pants with me, and hiss as I further tear open my bleeding hand in the process. Why did I have to grab that knife when we fought? I can still feel the cold steel in my grip as it slides with a sharp gush across my palm. A grotesque shiver ripples down my spine, but I let that stinging pain fall from my mind like rain. I can move past the pain. I can move past it because I am beyond it now; it won’t hurt me anymore, and I won’t let it ruin what’s about to happen.

He beckons me back to him, so I rescale his sweating frame and straddle his lap, now cradling my dripping hand. It’s Boulder all over again, only this time it’s an indescribable power I feel welling up inside me as I stare down at his darkened form. He’s still calm and silent, his mouth parted and barely breathing, and I’m filled with a burning need to touch his wet lips. I need to taste his pale, salty flesh on my tongue. I need to feel his hot breath on my skin just to be sure this monster's still alive.

My fingers hover over his face, barely tracing the outlines of his jaw and nose, and I notice little black spots materializing across his skin. Tiny, black, perfectly circular drops form a crescent trail wrapped from his eye to the corner of his mouth. Where did they come from?

It isn’t until I drag a fingertip though one, smearing it down his face, that I realize blood is trickling down my wrist.

He clutches my hand and forces it against his stained cheek, like he wants to feel my heart beating through my palm. He rubs the scruff of his jaw into the wound like a wire brush, and when I withdraw it with a hiss, the side of his face is covered in blood that drips in long fingers down his neck.

I don’t breathe as I look at him; I can’t. Half of his face glows pale in the moonlight reflecting off the lake, and the other half is black, painted with inky blood from my own wound.

His breathing has slowed like mine, and he watches me study the unmistakable duality of his face. He is duplicitous, and it is more obvious than ever before. He is both cunningly frank and deceitful, and he wears this paradoxical mask with unparalleled skill.

His eyes don’t leave mine as I drag my hand down his other cheek until his face is as black as the shadow’s. My fingers slip across his forehead, painting down his nose until he has no face in the blackness, just two white eyes and a mouth filled with sharp teeth that smile up at me like the Cheshire Cat. His fingers are drawn to his lips as I gawk at this erotically perverse scene: a tongue bathing long, white fingers in the depths of our darkened coffin.

I’m overheating and dazed, and when his hand falls away, he guides my own blackened fingers into his mouth and sucks each one until my skin returns to chalky white. His tongue and teeth are now tinted with me, and he bites his bottom lip. My flesh and blood aren’t quite enough to satiate his voracious appetite.

Sweat beads and rolls down my back in the dense, muggy air of our suffocating tomb, and I’m suddenly exhausted, despite my days of sleep. As I lean forward to rest my head on his chest, his hand hooks my neck and draws me to his mouth to return those pretty pennies to my tongue. The copper and salt from my fingers flows between our mouths like a brackish, ebbing tide, and it tastes like the air of my childhood home.

He draws me from those debilitating memories when I feel the long wet fingers of this living shadow make their way down my spine and into my body like the tongue that’s invading my mouth.

His breath shudders over my lips at his deliberate violation of me, and that staggering sense of pride engulfs me again. I love making him falter and expose his wants, naked and defenseless; and now he’s trapped under my weight, biding his time until I let him do whatever else I’ll allow. He wants to feel inside me, taste my blood and spit, and be that shadow that haunts me, and I want to let him torment my body with his. It feels sick and sinful, but if life is nothing but a cruel joke, then let us find levity in our sadistic whims – let us illuminate and celebrate these murky corners of our collective minds.

A sickness growing in my belly pulls me from his wet probing fingers. I can’t see straight in the obscuring heat of the cab, and the world feels like it’s being yanked from under us. He’s shifting below me, touching himself, then me – more spit, more probing. Then his hands trail up my thighs, grounding me back to the bed and the heat of his body. He grips my waist, and those white eyes stare up at me, begging me to reassess my moral conviction, but this monster doesn’t know me at all.

I sit up and lean back, driving him inside me until he’s buried to the hilt. It hurts with the same erosive burn it always does, but I stifle that agony – I don’t make a noise. I will not obscure the low growls rising from his throat. I want to hear him grunt with each of my thrusts and hiss when I dig my fingernails into his shoulders.

Without warning, the world bursts alive, and his intoxicating moans are overwhelmed by the deafening metallic pings that ring above us. The storm is breaking and scattering the earth with a barrage of icy hail. I curse that bastard above for denying me his primal groans. It’s as though my body can be breached, abused, and defiled, but the wicked grunts of this devil are simply too blasphemous for my ears to entertain.

There is nothing but a black sky raining from above and a scorching fire lapping from below, and we are spread between these worlds like my malicious shadow, a bridge between life and death.

My attention falls to earth again, back to my masked and bedeviled shadow who I’m forcing deeper inside myself. His eyes are closed, his ashy hair pasted to his sweat- and blood-covered face, so I wipe it away, and he opens his eyes. Delirious, blood-red wells stare back at me, begging to fill me up.

I wonder to myself sometimes if God’s proud of me yet. Because Hero is, and he actually wants me in a way God never did. Hero wants me to live with the dignity God denied me. He wants to show me respect, and show me my potential – and who am I, or God, to stop him? God can’t stop anything; he won’t even save his loyal flock.

I instinctively grab my cock as Hero edges closer to coming, and though I’m relieved to touch myself, my weak hand does nothing but bloody my dick and shake when I try to make a fist. He bats away my useless hand, and when his jaw clenches and his eyes beg again, I absolve this shadow of his sins with a benevolent nod so he can release that ache that’s building inside him.

He drags me to his chest, and my cheek sticks and tugs on his bloody face as he clamps down on my neck with his teeth. I’m finally close enough to his lips to hear his whimpering moans rather than the clatter of the hail, and I’m overwrought by the sickening sounds of his hunger for me. When he clutches my hair, his hips stiffen and he comes in waves, still buried as agonizingly deep as the monster that’s growing inside me.

We both pause as the storm and the world stops for a second, and he catches his breath again. He’s quiet, though heaving, until he grabs my ass and tears his cock out of my body. He wrenches me up to my knees and slides further under my thighs.

I’m so goddamn tired; I could sit on his chest and fall asleep, but I’m too close to coming to stop now.

He shoves me into the wall over his head, and before I can clear my muddled brain, he takes all of my bloody cock in his mouth. He’s licking it clean like a wound, and as his neck cranes to meet my body, I grip a fistful of his hair with my split-open hand to keep from collapsing.

I’m dizzying in the heat as he tongues me, and his hands finally release my ass so I can violate his mouth at my own pace. I am plummeting into this blood- and lust-filled orgy, and there’s nothing left of my morality to grab ahold of. Hell, I’m not even searching anymore. All I want to do is destroy this monster – I want to fuck his mouth so hard that I split his skull with a wet crack when I come. I want to expose the bloody seeds lodged inside his murderous mind. I want to hear him eat his goddamn words and beg me to show him _mercy._ With every thrust into him, he tightens his mouth until I can’t take it, and I fill him with my cum and whatever’s left of my integrity.

I don’t know if I want to be this person. I don’t know if I want to live in this place of perdition between violent storms and devouring infernos. I don’t want to feed myself with slain men. I don’t want to make these decisions about life and death, and then reward myself with gluttonous debauchery. I don’t want to be lost down a rabbit hole with nothing but the sinewy flesh of my next victim to use as a lifeline to climb out. But I’ve already hit the bottom, so where do I go from here?

Hero licks and sucks, but eventually pulls his mouth from my cock and draws my kneeling body back down to sit me on his chest. He presses his face against my thigh, smearing my own blood against my leg as he kisses skin.

This all seems like it should be more terrifying than it is, but it feels less grisly and more soothing to be so open with him. I feel more than just naked – this is beyond being exposed; my body has been literally torn open. I feel defenseless, injured, and unguarded, yet still in control. He’s covered in my blood and I am filled with his cum, and that feels somehow balanced to me. It’s a reciprocity of life-forces, an exchange of bodily fluids and the essences of our fundamental beliefs. Hero wants to have his cake and eat it too, and I just don’t want to die of hunger and crippling isolation anymore.

He trails his hands down my emaciated ribs again, his eyes closed and his lips still pressed against my thigh. He’s smelling me, enjoying the pungent post-sex bouquet of two sweaty, blood-soaked men trapped in a metal box. The tips of the hair glued to his cheek are wicking my blood up his temple, so I swipe the hair over his ear.

My touch draws his attention back to my face, and he mutters, “Tell me how you feel now, Cowboy.”

I don’t know how I feel. I’m not going to justify who he is or what he does by telling him that everything is peachy keen. I’m not going to try to rationalize away the atrocities of this man; I can’t. But if all the world’s a stage, and all the men merely players, then maybe I should feel fine, because this is my act to shine. Maybe this is my time to enter the production and add a supporting role to Hero’s wicked little performance. I’m not going to change him – I know that – but maybe I can speak to him on a more carnal level, offer a fresh perspective to this corporeal perversion of his. His life – according to him – is nothing but ecstasy; mine, nothing but tragedy. Surely it has to even out after enough exchanging of bodily fluids.

It’s strange to be looking down at someone who’s waiting patiently for you to answer their question while your dick is flopped across their neck.

“I don’t know how I feel,” I sigh. I guess I feel full and satiated … I did just eat and get laid. I probably should’ve said that, but he nods at my initial response and kisses my thigh like this was probably the best answer I could’ve given him. “How, uh … how do _you_ feel?” I wonder.

“Thirsty,” he says. That admission has me feeling oddly self-conscious, so I fall down next to him on the bed. It’s a disconcerting scene around us. Everything is smeared with something, but it’s all still dark, like we’re living in an underexposed photo – a deep and dull gray world. “What’s in your flask?” he asks. “I’ll finish it off, if you don’t mind.”

When the hell was he digging through my box? “Don’t go through my shit,” I say. “And it’s Jack, but it’s not mine so you can’t have it anyway.” He rolls to his side, and is now peering at me through squinted white slits since his face is still too ruddy to discern. “It’s my father’s,” I clarify.

“The whiskey is your father’s …? You said it’s been fifteen years since you saw him. More lies, Cowboy?”

“No. It _has_ been fifteen years, _Hero.”_

“You’ve kept a flask of your father’s whiskey untouched for fifteen years?”

He makes it sound crazy. I’m not crazy. “Yes. Look, he left it in my hospital room after my car accident. I was going to take it back to him … I just never got around to going home.”

“Why bother to return it at all?” he mumbles, and his hot hand snake around my back.

“It’s the right thing to do.”

His eyes widen, and I know what he’s thinking … I know how insane that sounds considering the clusterfuck we’re in, but it’s one of those things that the traumatized mind obsesses over. It was a weird task my twenty-year-old, painkiller-addicted brain insisted on doing. It was the goal I clung to during the darkness of my recovery. I had to get better, and when that happened, I would return my father’s prized possession to him intact – not empty, not even missing a sip – _intact._ The flask sat on my dresser for awhile. Then it lived under my mattress. I stashed it with my gun after the wedding – a nice DIY murder/suicide kit.

I almost drank it once, right after the divorce, but my resolve strengthened when I pocketed it and drove to Ellicott City to buy my new truck. It was just one of a handful of tasks left to accomplish before my life could finally end in peace.

“Do you still plan to give it to him?” he asks.

“Yeah. One day.”

He yawns and gropes the bed until he finds the pillow and shoves it under his bloody face. “Tomorrow’s a day,” he sighs, and his white eyes disappear into the darkness.

Tomorrow is a day – a new page, a new chapter, a new act in this dramatic performance. The flask had taken such a back seat to all the madness that I hadn’t really thought about how close we were to Louisiana – how close I was to checking off one of my lifelong goals.

It’s been fifteen years since we last spoke, and I have a few things to get off my chest. My father’s not the sort of man who listens, but maybe if I just say my piece I can finally let it all go and start my life with Hero truly anew.

My bedfellow is already passed out, these frivolous decisions being nothing but irrelevant to him. I inch close enough to rest my face against his chest and let my eyes close, too, as I wonder if what they say is true: that you can never go home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 15 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/04/07/unhitched-chapter-15-ride-out-the-storm/).


	16. To Drown Myself Wittingly or Not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gifted to [Purple_Girl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Girl/) who offered a challenge which I happily accepted. I do believe this is as fluffy as this story's gonna get.

For the first thirty seconds my eyes are open, I have to breathe through the pain and the panic. The brightly lit walls boxing me in are smeared with brown, oxidizing blood, and I feel like I have a knife stabbing my kidneys. I’ve been dropped into a goddamn horror film.

I dive off the blood-stained sheets and scramble over the console to get away from the carnage. I barely get the door wrenched open before tumbling from the truck into a pile on the rocky ground. I clamber a few feet away and fall to my back, still frenzied and huffing by the truck’s muddy tire.

I ache in every conceivable place, and the bright blue sky is blinding. I lie in the dirt for a few minutes, my hands hiding my face from the world, and wonder for the millionth time why fooling around with someone always has to be this painful.

It’s got to be mid-morning by now, and the cool breeze and fresh air coming off the lake are slowly calming my shot nerves. I want last night to be a blur, and yet here sits the memory of the gruesome orgy, vividly replaying in my mind like a gritty slasher flick. I drop my hands and clear my head, squinting up at the pile of logs hitched to the truck to avoid both my grisly memories and the brilliant sky.  

A voice calls from the lake, “I thought immodesty was _rude!”_

I sit up to see Hero’s shaking head poking out of the mirrored lake as he treads water.

Apparently I’m still naked, and now rolling around in the dirt like a dumbass. I cover my dick and yell, “Did you see the truck?! It’s the stuff of nightmares!”

“I’ll clean it before we take off!” he calls back, through stifled laughter. “I have peroxide in the back.”

“How much, though? Because _god damn!”_

“Don’t worry about it,” he calls. Good, because – my God – I don’t want to handle that mess. My heartbeat is finally slowing, and I’m catching my breath when he yells, “Come get cleaned up and I’ll look at your hand!”

Since we’re in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, I temporarily excuse my exhibitionism and limp down to the lake, still covering my junk with my sliced-up and blood-stained hands. The fire’s already blazing, warming the dutch oven next to it. Hero doesn’t look the type to be a Boy Scout, but the bastard does seem to be eerily prepared for whatever’s thrown at him.

“What’s in the pot?” I ask, plodding a few feet into the lake. I stop when the water reaches my knees, because it’s fucking freezing.

“Your shadow,” he answers through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

I could’ve guessed that. “You can stop calling him that; he’s not my shadow.”

“Guess you’re right. _I’m_ your shadow now.” He’s snickering, and I pretend my face isn’t igniting at that crude observation. “And you’ve certainly earned your name, _Cowboy.”_

I’m wholly unamused by the enjoyment he’s deriving from making fun of me over last night’s depravity. _He_ was the sick fuck sucking blood off my fingers like a damn vampire.

“How do you feel?” he wonders.

“How do you think I feel?”

“Like a bear with a sore ass.”

“Fuck you.”

He snickers at my plight, because he’s not the one who’s going to be dealing with this agony, bouncing around in a truck seat all damn day.

“You didn’t have to be so damn eager, Cowboy.” Like I don’t know that. “I would’ve been happy going slow, but you had different ideas, and I’m not one to complain.”

“Just … stop talking about it,” I hiss, and he nods, finally letting the damn thing drop.

I wade past him until I can carefully kneel on the lakebed, letting the water come up just below the dirty bandage on my chest. It’s cold, but it feels good to be submerged in something other than disaster – plus the chill is pleasantly numbing.

After I’ve washed off the blood, I finally examine the damage to my palm. The slice itself is still bright red, and there’s a wide line of deep purple and yellow-green bruising across my fingers where I clenched the spine of the knife. What’s most surprising are the thick black stitches running down the length of the cut – I had no idea Hero had sewn it up. The threads closest to my wrist are loose, and the wound is gaping a little from all the strain on it last night. My gut rolls and clenches just looking at it.

Hero glides through the water to kneel in front of me and tips my hand to examine the cut.

“I’ll clean it and tighten it up when it’s dry,” he says. He lifts my chin and inspects the gauze on my chest for a moment before his hand hooks my neck to keep me from drifting away from him. He carefully picks at the corner of the bandage and slowly works off the tape. There’s an oddly professional quality to the way he moves, and how his eyes scrutinize my injuries. He peels back the gauze and I glance down. My stab wound is stitched, too, but it doesn’t look nearly as bad as it feels. 

His fingers probe the skin around the wound, and I realize we've never been this close to one another in the daylight before. The familiarity we share with one another seems to be reserved for the cover of night. He's only inches from me now, and the smell of cigarette smoke overpowers any natural smell he might actually have. My thoughts start floating off into inappropriate territories, so I clear my throat and ask, "Where's Garm?"

"Hunting. She'll be back before we leave," he says, and then lightly taps my chest. "This looks good, but remember: no strenuous activities.” He winks, and I suddenly feel like his embarrassed little patient again.

I wonder if he’s just bullshitting with me. “Where did you learn to suture like this?” I ask.

“Amazing what you learn in medical school.”

He _is_ a damn doctor then? I’d like to think that the puzzle pieces he’s given me thus far are fitting together, but I have nothing but a random pile of useless shit that tells me nothing about him. I don’t even have a damn corner piece to start with. “When, uh, when did you go to med school?”

“When I was a med student,” he answers, like the ambiguous bastard that he is. Why did I ask him _when?_ His age is meaningless. I should’ve asked him _where._ Then he offers, “I was a surgeon, and now I’m not.”

Well that’s something. “Useful skills, I’d imagine … for your new line of work.”

“What, trucking?” he snickers.

“No … uh, never mind.” Yeah, because _human butcher_ isn’t a damn profession, you idiot … well, unless you’re _Colorado Guy_ , I guess.

He backs away from me to lower himself further into the lake until the water is lapping just below his chin again. “You hate it when I assume something about you,” he says, “but you’re quite comfortable assuming you know everything about me. Do you recognize your double standard?”

“Double standards are quite comfortable,” I say.

“They are. And it’s much easier to assume you know the truth than to find out and be disappointed.”

“You’re bound to be disappointed with me. Everyone always is.".

“You haven’t disappointed me yet. In fact, I’d say quite the opposite. You’re intelligent, well read, skilled with a knife, and a hell of a good lay.”

Jesus Christ … I ignore his disingenuous praise and continue, “We’ve got plenty of time to disappoint each other. I give it another week.”

“A week is probably generous,” he chuckles and leans his head back to finish rinsing out the crusty red tips of his blood-stained hair. When he lies in the water, he closes his eyes and relaxes, letting his naked body float to the surface.

I’m beginning to appreciate Hero’s opinion of modesty; it really has no place out here in the wild. I don’t bother to hide my wandering eyes anymore. If he catches me, he’d probably find my lecherous stare complimentary, anyway. He looks carefree and weightless as he floats like there’s nothing in this world that could stop him from squeezing the most out of every moment of life. He’s absorbing the serenity of this glass lake, surrounded by the tall, lush trees and billowy clouds of a beautiful Mississippi summer day. It’s heaven on earth, and I’m finally starting to see it.

The air feels different this morning. It’s not pregnant with heat and insects like the last morning I remember. It feels clean, though humid, and the storm last night cleansed the atmosphere of irritating pollen and dust. All that’s left now is the marshy scent of a dredged-up lake and the occasional plunk of bluegills diving under the surface of the water. Now I _really_ wish I had a couple fishing rods out here.

In lieu of mulling over what species I could be catching from a jon boat on this pretty little lake, I decide to join Hero and lie back in the water. I clutch my stitched hand against my stitched heart, and my head plunges back, washing away a week’s worth of blood and shame in the process. All I can hear is the gentle hum of nothingness in the underwater world – faint bubbling, a low rumble, and my own slowing pulse.

Those billowing clouds creep along the borders of my panoramic view, framing the blue expanse above me, and I’m now surrounded by air rather than water. I’m floating up and out of myself, beyond the pain and destruction I’ve witnessed, and into an ethereal realm of something akin to transcendental bliss. There are no choices here, no bad luck to suffer through, no waiting for the other shoe to drop – just total acceptance from the water at my back, and quite possibly from the man floating somewhere over my head.

I’ve never felt this before – openness, oneness, power in the sense of having control over my life. I could learn to like this. Hell, I could learn to _love_ this, and that’s saying something, considering I’ve never loved anything or anyone in my life.

I finally relax enough to close my eyes and just drift. This feels far more like basking than what Hero accused me of doing. I can bask in total silence, floating in a cool, clear lake. I’m not a blood-thirsty murderer here, but I’m also not a high school teacher. I’m not a perverted savage with a penchant for sodomy any more than I am a shamelessly devoted husband – unless I believe myself to be either, neither, or both. I could think myself good or evil, but I don’t. I’m just a body floating in nothingness … until my head bumps into something, and a darkness falls over my face, forcing me to open my eyes.

Hero’s upside down, looking at me from above, and somewhat backlit by that bright blue sky. He mumbles, but his words drift up and away from me as my ears stay sheltered underwater. A lifetime of staring at people’s mouths rather than their eyes has made me a decent lip-reader, but this enigma doesn’t move his mouth like the people I practiced on. It looks like he’s saying, “I feel, you play,”  but that’s probably not right. My eyes ignore his commentary and wander around his face instead.

His silvery hair is wet and pushed back, no longer tinged pink. In fact, I realize now, it’s not really gray at all. It’s more of a sandy blond that deepens into a golden ash at the tips. His face doesn't bear that black and white mask either, but rather ruddy cheeks that drip cold lake water from his scruffy jaw.

Those moving lips smile a lot more than I do, but if I recall correctly, I’m quite funny according to him. In my head, I can hear his low scoff and snicker, and I find it infectious, so I smile up at him for no reason. His mouth stops moving and he smiles back, and I can now see that his eyes aren’t black, or red, or empty – they’re amber and bright, and they’re finally realizing that I’m not listening to a damn word he’s saying.

Rough hands glide along my temples, and the top of my head bumps his stomach again. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but when he bites his lip, I unconsciously do the same, and it makes him smile again. It’s mesmerizing to watch another person’s face erupt in such joy. To be responsible for it, though, is another thing altogether. It’s addicting and captivating, and you never want to stop doing it.

I think he’s given up on communicating with me, at least with spoken words. His eyes say a hell of a lot, though. They don’t drill, but rather sink, into mine, and his face isn’t as harsh as I remember; but that could be gravity making him look a little soft around the edges.

His eyes leave my face and flick down my floating body, and I slowly shake my head when he licks his lips like a dirty creep. Yeah, I’m aware of what’s happening below my waist. I have ten years of flaccidity to make up for, and if Hero’s going to spend every waking moment trying to probe both my mind and my ass, what am I supposed to do? If we were just a couple inches closer to shore, the jackass would probably be rubbing his dick through my hair. For now, though, he’s just staring at my twitching cock instead of my eyes because he’s so incredibly charming.

Despite his clenched jaw clearly protesting his decision, he waves his hand over my face to gather my focus. He taps his chest and then points to the truck. Fine, go dry off, or clean the cab, or do whatever you want. I’m going to stay right here and fuck that pretty blue sky with my eyes for awhile.

His fingers drag through my hair and then set me adrift again, and I can hear him trudging through the water – sloshing, waterlogged footsteps growing fainter until they dissipate all together, and I’m back to staring at the blue in silence.

That’s not a bad way to say it, really, _fucking the sky with my eyes._ It feels that penetrative when you’re exposed and presented to the heavens on a mirrored platter. I feel gorged, plucked, and warmed by the heat of skin, ready and willing to be devoured by God. That pervert above’s got be jerking off to this – hell, I’m thinking about it myself.

If I drift to sleep in this ethereal peace, all the better. I’d welcome both dreams and drowning at this point, as both provide the mind with the greatest of reveries. There can be nothing on the other side to fear since life happily provides us with the worst of bodily torment. If death brings the destruction of the body, how bad could it really be?

As I relax into my watery bed, I nod off and my mouth dips below the water. I startle awake, flailing for a second until I realize I can stand in the shallows. As I gather footing in the muddy lake, I look across the shore and catch Hero smoking and now dressed in jeans, dragging a few lengths of chain and an axe across the beach towards the trailer. That is neither a bottle of peroxide, nor as peaceful of a sight as I was expecting to see when I woke up.

From this angle, he has the chains draped over his right arm, which clutches the axe handle, and I can make out a faint tattoo under his left shoulder blade. Have I really never looked at his back like this in the light? I don’t think I’ve looked at his naked back at all, except in Boulder before I almost passed out into a toilet. I will most definitely have to closely examine him from that angle very soon.

He’s at the trailer, messing with a few log ends, hooking three clips to something back there. I can’t see anything from my vantage point, but each section of chain looks about a yard long, with rustic black metal loops attached to the last links. When he’s finished hooking them up, he threads his axe handle through the loops, and with a quick jerk, the ends of three logs, maybe six inches thick, pop out of the log pile like a damn cork. What in God’s name is back there?

I slosh out of the water and up to the truck, grabbing Hero’s towel from the cab and wrapping it around my waist. “What’s this now?” I call to him as I round the back of the trailer.

On the ground, Hero’s stacking coolers and other crates, all fixed with eye bolts and attached to long lengths of rope. He’s pulling them out a cavernous hole running the length of the trailer. There are three logs completely missing, creating what looks like a three-foot round channel about forty feet deep, drilled straight into the pile. “What the hell is this?!”

“Storage,” he says, digging through a crate.

“Storage for what?!”

“Peroxide, _venison,_ disrespectful shadows … whatever moves me,” he says with a grin. “Hell, I’ve slept in there on more than one occasion.”

This is the part of Hero’s life that I feared discovering more about. I don’t want to see or know any of this. In fact, because he’s being unnaturally casual with this grisly secret, I’m left wondering if this isn’t a _now that you know, I have to kill you_ type situation. “So … so … this is how you do what you do?” I ask, “This is how you avoid police, and … transport things?”

He nods and says, “I change vehicles occasionally, but I’ve had this trailer for a few months now; it’s working for me.”

“That business about you heading north to drop off a load in Missoula was bullshit, wasn’t it? You don’t actually haul anything.”

His head cocks, and I swear to God I can hear that damn clock ticking again. “I’ve _been_ to Missoula,” he says, like that should placate me. “That’s where I got the truck.”

“But what you said in Boulder was a lie.”

“Not a lie. I was intending to go back; I just didn’t.”

I nod, but this is all becoming a much clearer picture for me. He calls _me_ a liar, but has never spoken a damn word of truth himself. _“Cold Eggs_ said he was going to Reno, too … he was passing through Salt Lake, remember?”

“Now, _that_ was a lie,” he states flatly. “I don’t frequent Reno. The cops are too erratic for my taste.”

“What were you going to do with Junebug then?”

I don’t know why, but the thought of her riding with him is overwhelming my mind. I can’t stop thinking about her running off to hop in Hero’s murder wagon and driving off into the bloody sunset. All the sudden, that hole in the back of the trailer is looking awfully Junebug-shaped.

Hero’s wrinkling his forehead because he has no idea who the hell I’m talking about. “The _tail_ you wanted me to drop in North Platte – Junebug.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything with _Junebug.”_

“Why did you want me to drop her off, then? Why did you accuse me of denying you _tail?”_ These aren’t unreasonable questions, but he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my damn mind. I just want to know how deep in the darkness this asshole lurks. Would he have ruined and murdered that girl for fun? Is that the sick and twisted person he is – pounding and eating children? “You going to answer me, or should I make up my own story? The one I’m kicking around is pretty damning. I’m giving you a fair shot to explain yourself.”

He looks up from the crate he’s digging through and says, “I’m not really appreciating your tone, ‘boy.”

Well, I’m not appreciating the condescension and lies.

“She had nothing to do with any of this,” he says and returns to digging through his crate. He’s acting like my accusations mean nothing to him. He’s just scouring through boxes and pulling out white gallon jugs – basically ignoring me.

“Why did you agree to take her to Salt Lake if you weren’t headed to Reno? Is that your _good Samaritan_ peeking out again? I rerouted seventeen hours out of my way to avoid you.”

He sets down a jug and stares at me. “Why? What made you avoid me?”

“Because I thought you were a creep and you might mess her up and kill her.”

He starts laughing as he coils a rope around his arm. “Good eye,” he snickers.

What the hell? “So you _were_ going to kill her?”

“I go where I go, and I do what I do,” he says. “If you had dropped her in North Platte, I would’ve driven her to Salt Lake, but you _didn’t._ _You_ made that choice, not me. I didn’t change your route; you did.”

“But if I had made the decision to leave her with you, would you have killed her?”

“What I would’ve done is irrelevant. Her fate would have been in _her_ hands after the drop, not yours.”

His roundabout logic is enraging, and he avoids direct questions like a damn plague. “Would you have killed her after the drop? Yes or no?”

“I guess we’ll never know,” he says. “Thanks to you and your _good eye.”_ He smiles and starts loading coolers back into the man-made maw of his trailer.

Fuck him, fuck his log hearse, fuck everything; I need to get dressed. All the anxiety and tension that I released into the lake is seeping back into my skin, and I’m turning to leave when he grabs my arm and hauls me back.

“I was trying to get to know you,” he says. _"You_ brought up the girl. When I heard your twitchy little voice on the radio, I just said hello. There’s no mystery here – no malicious intent. I was offering to help a friend. You’re obsessed with being dramatic, Cowboy. You’re touchy. Makes me wonder why you’re still here.”

“Touchy?!” I scoff. I am not touchy!

“You pick fights faster than I can squelch them.”

“Oh, of course. I forgot. You’re the one in control. I’m just an unpredictable bomb ready to explode, and you’re keeping me nice and stable, right?”

“You’re doing it right now,” he says.

“Doing what?!”

“Looking for excuses to hate me. You’re at odds with yourself, and you’re taking it out on me.”

I’m not at odds with myself. I’m thinking clearer than I ever have before, and I can see what he’s doing. I know he’s trying to trick me; everyone tries to trick me. “I’m not a puppet.”

His grip tightens on my arm. “Good. I don’t want a puppet,” he says, shoving me away.

I stand there, still dripping lake water, a towel the only thing separating me from the world at large, and I’m left wondering if I should go get some clothes and start hoofing it out of this nightmare.

But I don’t. I stay right where I am.

“Fine,” I say. I’ll bite. “If you don’t want a puppet, what  _do_ you want then?”

“I already told you,” he hisses, “But ears won’t hear what the mind begs them to ignore.” He loads up the last crate and recaps his little puzzle box with a whack from the butt of his axe. He gathers up his chains and jugs and heads to the cab, leaving me alone at the back of the trailer to stew and drip.

I kind of want to dive back in the lake. I kind of want to run away. I kind of want to curl up into a ball and pretend this whole conversation didn’t happen. But that would be the coward’s way out, and I’m not feeling particularly cowardly at the moment. I could go pick another fight – he never did answer me honestly about Junebug – but that just makes me the victim of his little mind games, a touchy drama queen who can’t let the past stay in the past. It strands me out here at his whim and mercy, and that doesn’t feel quite right either. I’m now left with surviving this mess and just getting through it, morality be damned.

I have to be the bigger man, be a stronger man, and find the fortitude to face what I don’t want to face – the fact that last night he said he wanted _me_ in the worst possible way. He’s not being cruel, or hurting me, or caging me against my will. He’s feeding me and tending to my wounds, and protecting my sorry ass from myself, while I’ve done nothing but rain blood upon us both. He already told me what he wants; I just don’t think he quite understands what that means, and I refuse to accept that after only a few brief, albeit intense, encounters that he could find me that worthy of adoration.

I wander down the side of the truck to the cab and find Hero stripping the bed and wiping down the walls of our bloody little den of iniquity. Since my pants and his old gray shirt are still tossed on my box of shit, I hop up into my seat and get dressed while Hero keeps slaving away behind me. “You need help?” I wonder.

“Probably more than you do,” he snickers.

“I’m not picking fights,” I blurt over my shoulder because I need to clear that up right now. I don’t want him thinking I’m some nagging asshole. I’m not intentionally being antagonistic; I’m trying to figure out what’s happening to me.

I’m beginning to wonder if Hero doesn’t understand me in more ways than I realize. Every time I’m about to lose my shit, he’s been right there helping me through it. I owe him more than the hostility I keep bringing to the table. He saved my ass in Boulder, lest I forget. He saved _and_ fucked my ass here in Mississippi, and honestly, I’m starting to feel safe around him, despite learning more and more of his morbid little secrets.

When I realize he hasn’t responded, I reword what I said, “I’m sorry for being rude.” He starts snickering to himself, and I don’t get what’s so damn funny. I’m being serious.

“All is forgiven, Cowboy. Don’t grovel. As much as you seem to want to be one, you aren’t a dog any more than you’re a toy or a puppet.”

I nod and turn away to stare at anything but his eyes. That amber tint that was clear and obvious in the sunlight has faded from his irises, and I can’t help but feel responsible for its hasty departure.

I feel bewildered, off-kilter, like I’m teetering between two worlds – the right and the exceedingly wrong. The edges of both have become so blurred that I can’t tell who is the hero and who is the villain in this play. I don’t want to be the villain, but I wonder which is worse - to never feel remorse for your carnal sins, or to feel that remorse in every bone in your body but ignore it so you can keep on sinning because it feels that damn good.

It was only last night that I wanted to walk _beside_ him on this stage, but I was coming down from a corporeal orgy – not really the best time to make a life-altering decision. Of course, maybe it is. Stripped of rational thought, the weight of choice, and the burdens of men, we are nothing but animals. Without a scale of evil on which to judge their actions, can an animal make a morally _wrong_ decision?

Hero’s already tossed the bloody sheets onto the dash and remade the bed, and finally joins me in the front seat with a bloody rag that he abandons on the floor. There are no words on his lips, just another smoke.

“In the lake,” I wonder, “what were you saying to me?”

He sighs and rubs his eyes, now looking exhausted as he leans back into his seat. “Ophelia,” he says. “I was saying you looked like Ophelia.”

“Hamlet’s Ophelia?” I snicker. Med school and a lover of Shakespeare … the mysteries abound. Ophelia, though … how cryptic. “Do I seem suicidal?”

“You purposefully drown yourself in thoughts and rationality, and that is a dangerous practice.”

“I suppose I should just stop thinking, then – less water to swallow.”

“Or, rather than a dog, be a shark – then it doesn’t matter what you swallow.”

I huff out my amusement and release a pent-up, nervous sigh. If only it could be that easy … become a shark by simply believing that you are one.

Hero wads up the dirty sheets, shoves them in a white drawstring bag, and stashes them in the compartment under the mattress. “Lunch, and then decision time,” he says, plopping back in his seat and cracking his door.

“Decisions?”

“Are we still headed to the bayou, or are you planning to age that whiskey another fifteen years?”

I guess I could say no. We could turn this rig around and leave my father’s rotting shack in the rearview, but that seems like a decision a weak man would make.

I slide out of the cab and join Hero on his way to the fire to serve up more shadow stew.

“I’m not running anymore,” I say to him, and he nods. At least I’m not running today, anyway. I’ll worry about tomorrow when it comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 16 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-16-to-drown-myself-wittingly-or-not/).
> 
> Art: [Inner Pieces](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/5resXX2RmJge9Gwilu87-eoNUSBucN0kah4h_XYtpXpEeiXy0oW0sGYQs7b0rbbGogh2CLPszxr2EpVfkhQJpmFvXItPH3h2CXCoYHMXlOo2cqQiKQbsjYtyr8-4SSGPgklOKkdueLa7wsqRFiqIEk2wkBjqzjerDMhIf94NS7pK0anv0ru_PCZDkufKqPU2ROV6Uk8mExxzerDVIttLBNNW2o-Y1X-dWmH2zSZPz_0kRG3ZucfekVTOuePyPieNCvSRqqWE6ALf-uW3hXuE5R4ZmzrwzjLZxAsG8NyQp3s8Y03ze1qL48pkEoWtcxnrK2X_SpY1Qyg6GD2RuanU_M5LYggIep30jTHXx5Biq-xzJraQ4sIRR9bt6e5dVxMGAhxzKWtEfZqO_Y1s9WWHjnfkp64mT-UAjEtQc9vE4XMgtQXpGq3YLxaV1cx2NGR4ckGAhxizDl8Wzfpj4czqprNRKpPVbIcT7WjayJdEKqmA8vFo7s5fiTBXJma-Xo4SaGGu8cDs-Ka9qVqMfs3Ag6ij_G3_HFk_s5zGC5yCeDb_oKXxcHIXRARBW3g6Vez7d2L2YNHueoLtPG3ro45vNcppFuNdGsZPLsJal0YIZi3Oj97XIxVr56yX11tnVRSYek7d6p-f5STqqwm27EiZk38pU4T5g1Cq5g=w700-h394-no) by joanielspeak


	17. Sowing Dragon's Teeth

_“Just saw a 10-73 southbound on 55,”_ says the radio, and Hero eases off the gas.

Speed traps are not particularly welcome when you’re hauling cargo as suspicious as a half-eaten shadow wrapped in garbage bags, especially when you’re also giving a lift to a man who looks an awful lot like Tom Selleck, _The Butcher of Boulder._

 _"A couple bears are setting up camp at mile 1-50,”_ shares the radio. The voice is nasally and speaks with a strange lisp, like its tongue is split down the middle.

We’ve been driving for an hour, and this is the first voice I’ve heard in the last week that wasn’t Hero’s or the brief mumblings of our cargo, before I cut out his tongue like a psycho.

Hero picks up the receiver. “10-4; thanks for the heads up. We’ll be on our best.”

After a pause, that voice is back. _“Hey Butcher, that you?”_

Hero hisses through his teeth and briefly side-eyes me, palming the mic again. _“Red Dragon …,”_ he says with a snicker. “You ever find what you were looking for?”

It’s that goddamn pervert from Missouri.

 _“No Japs ‘round here, Butch. Kinda hoping to taste one of them sideways pussies though. If you come across one, you send her my way, you got it?”_ What a disgusting cretin.

“I’ll be sure to do that, _Red,_ but only after I’m done with her,” he says. And now I have to wonder why the hell he’s even indulging this asshole.

“When you’re done with her, _Butcher?”_ I repeat. “Are you just going to keep talking like that?”

He glances over, and I’ve suddenly turned into that nagging wife I’ve been trying to avoid becoming. “He’s the dregs of humanity, Cowboy. Allow me these meager indulgences.”

“It’s disgusting,” I snap.

He grins and holds the receiver out toward me. “Do as you will.”

I snatch it from his hand. “Hey _Red,”_ I say into the mic, “are you always this vulgar or only when you can hide your sorry ass behind a radio?”

_“Who the hell’s this?”_

“Hopper-Dropper, and it’s pretty damn pathetic that you have to agree to take Butcher’s sloppy seconds just to get some tail. You must be one ugly bastard.”

Butch chuckles at me and I toss the mic back to him. I don’t give a rat’s ass if I piss off that pervert. I hate people like him. He gives all truckers a bad name; besides, there could be kids listening in on this conversation.

 _“You better hope I never find you, Hopper-Dropper,”_ he threatens, and I wave my hand through the air. Piss off, asshole.

“I think Hopper’s just feeling a little full of himself, Red. I’m sure no harm was meant.”

_“If I ever find that little cocksucker, he’s dead, Butch.”_

Something in me snaps, and I lean over the console and snatch the mic from his hand again. “Come and get me, you little shit! No one’s afraid of an ugly little pissant like you!” I chuck the receiver back across the cab. “Turn the damn thing off. I can’t listen to him anymore.”

Butcher nods and flips off the radio, leaning back in his seat. “You a little edgy today?”

I’ve been _a little edgy_ since the day I was born, but today might be a bit worse than most. “I don’t know what to say to my old man. He’s going to call me something horrible, and I’m going to want to punch him in the goddamn teeth.”

“You’re not the scared little boy he remembers, Hopper.”

“No, I’m not. I’m a whole hell of a lot worse.”

“Not worse. Just different,” he says.

“He doesn’t know about the divorce, and he’s going to call me a screw-up because I’ve never done anything right,” I blather. “I went to college, which he said was a waste of time and money, and it _was,_ because I didn’t even get the degree I wanted. Then I lost my wife to another asshole, and I don’t even have my truck anymore. Hell, he probably would’ve been proud to know that I had a truck. He always thought I was a pussy for wanting to be a teacher.”

“Borrow my truck, then,” he suggests.

“No; no lies. And you’re not getting within a hundred yards of his house. I’m not subjecting any of us to that shitstorm. I just want to say my piece, give him the damn flask, grab a couple things, and leave.”

“And what piece do you intend to say, Hopper?”

I always thought that I needed to blame my father to his face for all of my life’s problems, but those antagonistic words never seemed right in my head. “I wanted to tell him off – tell him I hate him – but that feels so … cheap, like a low blow or a cop-out.”

He nods and side-eyes me again. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he’s hurting just as much as I am; he always has been. I can’t just storm in there and tell him off. It’s been fifteen years; where’ve I been?”

Where _have_ I been? I haven’t been there with him, and I sure as shit haven’t been a son any more than he’s been a father. I haven’t called, or written, or checked in on him any more than he has. Relationships are a two-way street and you can’t blame a hurting man for hurting. You don’t get to control the feelings of others. You can only control how you react to them: with cruelty, contempt, or compassion. He had no right to blame me for my mother, and I still resent him for it, but at what point do I just let it go? “How much longer do I let him have this guilt-stricken tether tied to me?”

“As long as you want,” he says. “Do you still feel guilty, your father’s feelings aside?”

Of course I do. “Do you know what a lifetime of guilt does to a kid? To be made to feel responsible for a family member’s death like that? I didn’t have to grow up with that burden on my shoulders, but I did, and he made sure every damn day that I knew it.”

“You realize you can break the tether now – right where you sit. Why do it to his face?”

“I have a peace offering,” I say, pulling the flask out of the box. “Might lubricate the cogs of forgiveness on both our parts.”

“And if he’s unwilling to lubricate those cogs?”

“Then I guess I’ll know.”

There’s a long, uncomfortable pause that makes me wonder what’s going on in his head. I didn’t mean to start divulging things about my past. It seems strangely intimate – too intimate – even more so than our overly affectionate sleeping arrangements. This is an area neither of us has tread, especially him. We still don’t even know each other’s names.

Butcher's absorbed in thought, just twisting his unlit cigarette between his fingers like a hard nipple. I probably made him uncomfortable; I tend to prattle on when I get nervous. This trip south was the worst idea I could’ve had. I wanted to make amends – I need to be finished with this shit – but every mile closer we inch, the more nervous I get. I’m jittery now, and I need to calm down before I start sharing far more than I intend. “You, uh, you get along with your folks?” I ask. Tread lightly, Hop.

He snaps out of his daze and lights his smoke. “I did, somewhat,” he says before stopping.

“I’m betting that fruit’s a bit too high for me to reach, eh, Butch?”

He snickers and nods, taking a long drag. “I’ll say that my family didn’t deserve the hand they were dealt,” he sighs. “They fought a war on all fronts, and I’ll leave it at that.”

That reality hits me like a sack of bricks. He would have been maybe ten when the war broke out. “I, uh, … I’m sorry to hear that. We had the luxury of four thousand miles of water keeping us safe. Hell, you grew up on the front line.”

He slowly nods and presses his hand tight against his mouth as he inhales his smoke through his fingers. He’s holding back an avalanche of something, but I don’t have the heart to press it.

“So how did a poor Cajun boy end up with the big dream of becoming a _school_ _teacher,”_ he says through a shit-eating grin.

“Don’t patronize me,” I snap. “My old man never thought education was worth a damn – and it showed, believe me – but _I_ did. And I wanted to be a _professor of English literature,_ but that never happened, obviously. My neighbor was this nice older lady – never had kids, but she had been a schoolteacher in Georgia. She called teaching _God’s work,"_ I scoff. “She slipped me money every chance she got as long as I promised to go to school. My father didn’t give a damn whether I stayed or left; so I left.”

“So your neighbor paid for your schooling?”

“Some of it. But don’t go thinking I’m a charity case. I was a kid. No one told me I shouldn’t be taking her money, but I’d been saving to get the hell out of there since I was nine. Every waking moment I had, I was gathering up and returning bottles, mowing yards, or fixing boat motors with my dad. I had my finger in every pie just trying to get enough saved to move as far from Louisiana as I could get.”

“And you stopped running in Maryland.”

I nod, but I wasn’t running from my dad, I was fleeing the future I knew I was destined for if I didn’t get the hell out. Working in a boatyard may have been nice in another life, but not this one. I would have gone all the way to Canada, maybe joined the Mounties if I could have.

“You had a car,” he says. “Your old man couldn’t have been that bad. I can’t think of too many kids who grew up with the luxury of a vehicle.”

“Don’t go trying to guilt trip me for saying I hate him. He rebuilt that Chevy, and I bought it from him, fair and square, _and_ kept it running myself.”

“You couldn’t keep your truck running, though,” he notes.

No, I couldn’t, but what the hell’s that supposed to mean? I haven’t messed with motors for ten goddamn years, and I don’t owe him an explanation.

He must be reading my face because he waves his hand like I’m a juror who’s supposed to just disregard that last comment. I’m too anxiety-ridden to care anyway, plus I think we’ve talked enough about me for the time being. “So, med school …,” I wonder. “Where’d you say you went?”

“I didn’t,” he says, as he flicks his spent butt out the window. Like an automated robot, he taps a second smoke out of his pack and pops it in his mouth. “Johns Hopkins.”

So he’s from _my_ stomping ground. He was living in Baltimore with me; that’s disconcerting. “That’s a … good school,” I say. No wonder he’s so adept at everything. He’s been taught by the best.

“I was accepted on my exceptional merit, and then spent most of a decade doing nothing but reprimanding surgeons when they refused to wear gloves in the OR,” he scoffs, lighting his smoke. “I loved the work, though, and I excelled. Studying human anatomy’s a bit of a hobby of mine.” I can’t believe he learned how to be a better murderer from America’s leading teaching hospital – seems morbidly ironic, considering he was trained to _save_ lives, not consume them. “But things change,” he continues, “People change. Life called me elsewhere, and I left. Just like you.”

“That’s a pretty substantial life to just walk away from – credentials, prestige – and a hearty paycheck, I’d imagine. I was fleeing a shithole in the middle of a swamp. Big difference.”

He smiles and says, “It no longer suited me, and there is no reward for living your life by someone else’s measure. The road less traveled is often the most invigorating, so that’s where I went. This road–,” he says, waving his smoke toward the highway, “is far more exciting to walk than long white halls corralling filthy doctors.”

I hum to myself and nod. In the last fifteen minutes, I’ve learned more about him than I have in the last week. What I’m learning isn’t reassuring, but it’s not terrifying either. I’d been imagining him as a phantom – a creature that simply materialized one day in Detroit when I was having a breakdown over a cold breakfast. He’s felt as abstract as the shadow, and as surreal as the night we killed the mugger. You can slaughter a man alongside a monster; you can dine with a devil; hell, you can fuck a shadow, but you can’t open up to these creatures. The more pieces he gives me – the further back his timeline spreads – the more I’m forced to see him as a person with a face and a name, despite our ever-changing epithets.

My mind must have wandered too far away for too long because he clears his throat. “Are you building another prison?” he asks, and my attention is drawn back into the truck.

“No.” I was tearing one down.

“Are you bothered by this?”

“By what, talking? No.”

“Then tell me about one through four.”

I guess I was wrong. There are some things that bother me – secrets I’m still not ready to share. “One was my mother, and I’ll leave it at that.”

He leans back in his seat, a little perturbed by my enigmatic answer, considering he already knew about my mother, but he’ll have to get over it. If I have to call him _Butcher,_ then he can live with not knowing everything about me.

“I’ve filled your belly with my food," he says, "your mouth with my tongue, and your ass with my cock, but you still don’t trust me.”

I know he’s trying to get a rise out of me. He wants to watch my face redden while he revels in my embarrassment, but screw that. “I’ve filled _your_ belly with my cum and your mouth with my dick, but you still won’t tell me your name. As for _your_ ass, it won’t be long now, Butcher – eye for an eye, remember?”

His face suddenly lights up as he stifles laughter and tries to focus on the road. I can feel the amusement radiating off him. He actually looks flustered behind the smoke he’s huffing out, and it makes me feel pretty damn _proud._

“I’m looking forward to it,” he says. “I’m glad you’re starting to see the world from my perspective. _That_ justice will feel pretty damn good, I assure you.”

He’s still chuckling, and I shake my head. This guy’s nuts, and I’m _choosing_ to follow the bastard like a stray; what’s that say about me?

He continues, “When you get to where you _can_ trust me, you let me know. I’d like to revisit your count.”

“Why are you so intrigued by that? I don’t want to know your count at all.”

“That’s fair. I guess I just find you interesting.”

“You have a thing for twitchy men who tear the faces off knife-wielding shadows?”

“Apparently I do,” he says. “Do you have a thing for strangers who help you bury a body and then fuck you covered in blood?”

“Apparently I do,” I snicker, and I think I must be going mad. I’ve definitely got more than a couple screws loose in my skull. He’s so blazé about everything, I can’t tell if I should be worried by his lack of concern, or comforted by it.

* * *

It’s late in the evening, though still light out when we finally arrive in Baton Rouge. The old warehouse near my house is barely standing, but still there, so that’s where I leave Butcher parked with the truck. The flask is securely tucked in my back pocket, sloshing with every agonizing step I take toward my old home. Every thirty seconds, I have to push my glasses back up my nose because I’m sweating so badly in this goddamn heat. I’ve never forgotten how muggy it is, and it makes me appreciate the relative dryness of the Chesapeake.

When I left this neighborhood, it was a mess of homes and corner stores with a gas station that seemed to be the only place people gathered. Now that I’m back, I see that it’s not just a mess – it’s a dump. The gas station’s boarded up and sporting cardboard signs that say “NO GAS,” and the whole street feels like a ghost town.

I can see the patch of trees behind my old house, and it stops me dead in my tracks. I don’t have to do this. I could just forget this nonsense and turn around. I’d been forced to leave Butcher during one of his bouts of sexiness, reading _Sirens_ while he relaxes on the bed with Garm. I could go right back there and get that justice he was looking forward to and just toss the damn flask to the curb. The enticing image of stripping off his clothes and bending him over has me taking a few lecherous steps back toward the truck. I would certainly enjoy getting to inspect that tattoo of his – maybe explore it with my tongue a little bit – but I come to my senses and cross the road instead, hoofing it to the house.

My father’s other pride and joy, a Harley Davidson, is still parked where it always had been, and the sight of it makes my gut churn. Wherever that bike is, so is my old man. I realize now that I was hoping it would be gone, parked in front of _The Hateful Snake_ until two in the morning when he’d sober up enough to ride it home. The bike looks older now, but still well-loved and well-used. I wouldn’t have known it had been fifteen years if I didn’t feel every single one of them in my bones.

The house looks exactly the same, tiny and dingy – basically just moldy white siding covering a plywood box on a cracked foundation, with a tin shed out back that looks bigger than the house. The small porch is overgrown with weeds, and half the railing’s still gone. I fell off that damn thing more than a couple times growing up, but the bastard never fixed it … but he was busy, working two jobs to keep this shack from leaking.

I peek in the front window, but my old man has a bookcase covering it now. He never liked open windows – too exposing to the elements and the neighbors’ eyes for his taste. He refused to sleep anywhere but his old chair in the living room with a shotgun on the floor next to him. Said he had to keep us safe, be sure no one was prowling around outside. I don’t know who he was protecting us from. The whole neighborhood was scared of him. He'd always been a damn nut job.

There’s this anxiety building in my chest, and I’m back to debating if I should just abandon the flask on the porch and be done with it all. I still need to speak with him, though. If I give him nothing else for the rest of my life, I want to give him an hour to let me have it. I want to help him find the peace he and I both need. When it’s all said and done I get to leave this place, but my old man never had that option.

I stand on the bottom step of the porch and wait, building strength before I subject myself to the barrage of shit he’s going to come at me with. Where’ve I been? Did I come home for money? Did I knock up some bitch other than my wife? It hasn’t been long enough for him to have changed that much, and I know he still carries the same list of grievances that I do.

I take a deep breath and finally ascend the stairs. The quicker I get this over with, the sooner I can go back to the relative peace of life on the road with my murdering fuck-buddy.

I lightly tap on the door, hoping I don’t get a faceful of buckshot, but there’s no answer. I knock again and wait. I don’t want to startle him by barging in while he’s taking a shit, but if I go around back, I’m as good as dead. My dad was never kind to trespassers.

The door always swells in the summer, so I wrench on the handle and throw my shoulder into it, which is a bad idea considering the state of my pummeled body. I grit my teeth when the stitches in my chest stretch, and I push in the door.

The place is a goddamn mess. My father’s always been a pig, and Jesus Christ, it shows. The television is chattering away about Slim Jims, there are bottles and cans everywhere, and the salty air reeks of diesel fuel and rotten potatoes. I suddenly remember why I always hated coming home after school. It was a rat’s nest of filth and piles of shit. Car parts and boat motors make up a black, oily mound in the middle of the goddamn living room carpet. Only lunatics work on motors in the middle of their living room.

His chair’s empty but still has that slick patch at the top, and today’s work shirt’s been tossed over the upended Domino sugar crate he uses as a side table. If he’s not in that chair, or rolling smokes at the kitchen table, he’s out in the shed working on the boat that’s been his pet project since before I was born.

I wander through the kitchen, taking time to tap the frame of my mom’s photo before I head out the back door to the small yard behind the house. It’s surreal to be walking these hallowed grounds again. Nothing looks different, except for the quantity of rubbish piled next to all the rusted boat trailers and cinder blocks. The shed’s butt up against the woods, and as I guessed, the faint glow of his work light shines from under the door. I’ll just toss him the flask, and he’ll be so overjoyed that he won’t say a bad goddamn word about anything. We’ll share a couple beers, and he can tell me how the bike's running.

I yank open the shed door, and there the drunkard sits at the old broken table in the corner, with an empty glass and a bottle of whiskey, like he was just waiting out here to tell me how much prouder he is of his boat than his own son. He always drinks out here; there was just something about alcohol and dangerous tools that never sat right with me, though he never seemed to care.

“Hi, dad,” I whisper because I’ve completely forgotten what I was going to say to him.

He stares at me, disgusted and exhausted like I’m the last damn person he wanted darkening his doorstep, and I just stare back, wondering how many cans he emptied before switching to whiskey. There’s something about that familiar pain in his eyes that seems to confirm my gut-wrenching suspicion about what they say – you cannot, and should not _ever_ go home again, and he’s about to tell me why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 17 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-17-sowing-dragons-teeth/).


	18. Le Petit Prince

They called my mother’s hair brown, but that’s the most glaring understatement anyone has ever claimed. Her hair was not just _brown;_ it was the color of maple syrup and just as thick. She always wore it down, and it covered her back in a warm, rich blanket that didn’t smell like syrup at all. It smelled like roses and black licorice.

She called the color maple syrup because she was born in Canada and proud of it. She would speak French to me as a little kid, and every night before bed we would journey through far-off worlds, visiting asteroids and boa constrictors that could swallow whole elephants. She only referred to me as her _Prince,_ and for the longest time, I thought my father’s name was _MyLove,_ until I called him that at school and my first-grade teacher laughed at me. Adults have an extraordinary ability to ruin innocent magic.

My mother was right to call her hair the color of maple syrup; it was rich and deep. She would take me to a small beach along the Gulf, and when the sun would hit her hair, it shone like copper. I relished our walks along the beach. We’d amble up the frothy high-tide line, and she’d run ahead to collect shells and bits of sea glass.  

She’d leave behind all the whole shells – the knobby oysters and unmarred white scallops – because my eight-year-old self loved to collect them. I loved to own a little piece of each creature’s ocean home, and was obsessive about them being perfect – no cracks or missing pieces would suffice. They had to look just like the drawing in the books from the library. My mother, on the other hand, only collected broken shells and pebbles, but her collection was truly remarkable.

Her eyes would sweep the sand, and her lips would curl into a cheeky grin whenever she spotted a glint of blue, or a shard of iridescent green. We’d gather our favorites and kneel in the soft wet sand to pore over our treasures like pirates. She loved these little gifts from the sea, and she would name each one – little blue, greenie meanie, summer sparkle. She’d tell me stories about the animals that left them behind for us to find, and when we’d had our fill of tall tales and salty winds, we’d gather up those piles of treasure so she could scatter them in the flower beds in front of our home. It was a ritual I realize now that I never fully appreciated as a kid.

When I was ten my father was offered a job on Lake Erie, and my mother was ecstatic. My old man was a skeptic – suspicious of everything – but when he was around my mother, he never stopped smiling. When he saw her face light up at the prospect of moving so close to her childhood home, he agreed to take the job on the spot. He was terrified to move, but after dinner each night, she’d soften him up by gushing over all the wonderful things we’d do up north – boating on a lake that felt like the sea, long walks through forests thick with conifers – and I’d finally get to meet my grandparents who lived a stone’s throw away, just outside Toronto.

In the days leading up to the move, I’d peel apart stacks of newspaper after school and lay them on the kitchen table – nice and flat. My mother would then wrap each dish, plate, teacup and saucer, singing _Parlez-Moi D'Amour_ at the top of her lungs while I rolled up her tiny collection of antique teaspoons in cloths to be packed up in our old Chevy.

We talked about getting a dog when we got to Erie. I wanted a puppy – a Chihuahua puppy – and I wanted to name him Poncho, just like the Beaver. She promised me Poncho, and we’d only been at the lake for a week – still unpacking boxes – when a lady dropped him off at our new little house by the dock. Poncho wasn’t a puppy though. He wasn’t a Chihuahua either. He was a six-year-old beagle named Darwin, and we were inseparable.

Darwin came with us to Mémé and Grandpa’s house when we eventually made the two-hour drive to their small farm. I had never seen my mother so excited in my life. She made us all dress up in our nicest clothes, and she parted my wavy brown hair with my father’s pomade, which made me smell like a waxy broom closet.

We stopped to eat at a restaurant on the way, which was like visiting a terrifying amusement park for me. I had only ever been to _The River Room_ in Mississippi when I was seven, and I had only gone _then_ because my neighbor couldn’t watch me. My mother was meeting an old lady who was supposed to help our congregation buy replacement pipes for the church’s organ. She was incredibly wealthy, and apparently hated kids, but my mom refused to believe that she could dislike me, of all people. My mom had hastily made me a bologna sandwich before we left, and I was told to sit quietly at the table when we got there. The lady we were meeting, however, demanded that I be served lunch, too. When my mom agreed, I did exactly as she instructed: I stayed silent, ate every crumb on my plate, and drank two huge glasses of lemonade. I’ve never been so stuffed in my life. The lady remarked that I was such a _sweet little gentleman_  that she insisted I be rewarded with a dessert. When I covered my mouth and woefully stared down the towering slice of chocolate cake set in from of me, my mother almost split down the middle with laughter. I forced a smile, and ate the whole piece anyway. I was sick when we got home, but the lady had agreed to fund the restoration, so it was worth it to bring music back to my church.

In Canada though, the little restaurant we stopped at was much fancier and looked over the north bank of Lake Erie. We sat at a small wooden table, and when I was handed a gold-trimmed menu, I must have looked like a deer in headlights. My father spent the whole time scoffing at prices while my mother asked me a hundred questions, trying to narrow down exactly what I was hungry for. This was a treat, a celebration of my dad’s new job and our new life in the north, but I had no idea what to eat; I was terrified of picking something wrong, so I focused on my mom’s smiling face instead of the menu. I remember how natural she looked in the dining room full of brass nautical fixtures and dark cherry floors. My father and I stuck out like blue-collar sore thumbs, but she shone like a star. She spoke in sweet sing-songy French to the waiter, who spent most of his time refilling my nervous father’s whiskey glass.

I tended to take after my father, and when I wouldn’t stop babbling about how worried I was for Darwin – all alone and stuck in the car – my father excused himself to go check on him. In the end though, Darwin was fine, and my dad got some much needed fresh air. Once he came back a little more relaxed, he and I spent the rest of the dinner picking out the nicest boats drifting across the lake.

My grandparents were vastly different from the people we’d left in Louisiana. Both had been born in the exotically foreign realm of Europe. My Mémé was French and she never seemed to speak to my father, but my Grandpa was an Englishman who went on at great lengths about the American Civil War. He was fascinated by it, and thought my father, having been born in the American south, should be fascinated with the war too. My father couldn’t have cared less. I’ll give him credit, though – he listened to as much as he could stand before he got fed up and walked around the horse pasture for a while with my mom. I can’t blame him for walking away; his family hadn’t come out of that battle as winners – an unfortunate fact that many of them still resented.

The farm was my mother’s childhood home, so she knew where all the best hiding spots were, and where we could find blueberry bushes and buried treasure. She also knew all the animals by heart. As soon as we got there, she and I took off with Darwin toward the back forty acres so she could show me these enormous shaggy, red cows. She let me name one of the new calves that had been born about a month or so earlier. I named her Copper, and she was the sweetest cow in the world.

My mother was the spitting image of Mémé. They both had maple syrup hair, and cooked the same meals – rich in cream and root vegetables – and they spoke only French when they were alone. While they chatted and cooked, I stayed under the kitchen table with Darwin, both of us waiting patiently for table scraps in the form of strawberry candies my grandfather would slip us while he read the paper.

I remember everyone getting into a fight our first night there because I didn’t know as much French as I should have by ten. Mémé had called it a disgrace. When I finally built up the nerve to chime in, I said I wanted to learn everything there was to know about France. My grandmother squealed with glee and kept tapping her nose, saying she _knew_ I was a smart boy.

My mom was never one to push formal education. She had never gone to college herself, of course, and claimed to loved _experiences_ more than academics. But when I majored in English and minored in French at the University of Maryland, she had never been prouder. I hadn’t moved that far away, mind you – just three hundred or so miles – so I’d visit home once a month to catch my mom up on all the goings-on back home in the “south”.

I was twenty years old when I visited home for Thanksgiving. I headed north before sunrise, unable to sleep because I’d just met an amazing girl at school, and I had to tell my mom about her.

My mother was outside, looking over the lake when I pulled into the driveway around lunchtime. Every day at twelve, my mom would sit out on the dock and gaze across the water. She said when it was noon here, the sun was just setting in France, so she’d go sit by the lake and imagine the sunset in her mind.

I never told my mom about the redhead I met in my writing class, because I couldn’t. There was no one to tell. There was no beach glass, no beagle named Darwin, no strawberry candy – and you should know that by now. My mother’s brilliant light and her endless love for life was the glowing warmth my family _could’ve_ had, but never did. That beauty and happiness she brought to the world was exactly what I ripped from my father’s life the day I was born. This was what he lost when he looked into my newborn eyes. This was the life neither of us would ever get to live. My very existence was her death sentence.

My mother had wrapped up her joy, her beauty, her whole life inside a tiny bundle and gave it to me as a birthday present. It would be the only present she’d ever hand me, and I selfishly stole that precious gift and wasted it. I didn’t flourish with it like she would have. I didn’t relish in its beauty. I did nothing but squander it for thirty-seven pathetic years, until the day finally came when my father, desperate to escape the pain his son had caused him, shot himself, alone in the empty shed behind our shack in Baton Rouge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 18 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-18-le-petit-prince/).


	19. I Never had Options

I was never allowed to feel anything as a child – least of all to feel like I had options. The options were probably there, I’m sure, but for most kids, adults simply refuse to tell you what they are. You come when you're called. You sit where they point. You do as you're told, and that’s it. If you’re lucky, you survive another day.

As I got older, I was expected to take care of my family; that was my job. I know it was unfair, and I know how callous my father’s expectations were, but that doesn’t change anything. Knowing that now doesn’t make his life any easier to endure, or my own any easier to forgive.

I needed my father because I was a motherless child – alone and lost. But the truth is I was a burden to him because he never needed me. My father knew how to survive without me; he’d done so for twenty-five years without a problem. Both a father and a mother will survive even if their baby is torn from the mother’s breast. The baby, however, starves without a surrogate. No one needs their children in order to physically survive.

When you don’t _need_ someone, they’re disposable to you. You can chitchat with the man in front of you at the bank sixty seconds before he gets hit by a bus, and you never shed a tear because you didn’t need him. Your life will carry on with or without that man. Now, imagine for a moment that that man has just stabbed your wife and left her to die on the cold linoleum floor of that bank. Sixty seconds later, he’s maimed by a bus. Are you still indifferent? He means something to you now, but do you weep? He’s hurt, and in pain. Why did he stab her? Greed? Desperation? Psychosis? Does it matter? Your wife’s still dead. Can you muster empathy for her killer, or might you rejoice in their misery?

Watching and enjoying someone else’s suffering is sadistic, but no one’s ever said that humans aren’t inherently cruel. We flock in droves to violent movies. We consume the most gruesome of novels that romanticize pain and torture. We sign up for and run off to war to kill an enemy that’s vowed to do the very same thing. Some of us even derive pleasure from hitting the spouses we choose and the children we bring into our world. We stand by while the homeless and downtrodden beg in the streets at our feet. We are paradoxically both intrigued by, and indifferent to, human suffering.

If you’ve never formed a bond with anyone, if you’ve never relied on another person, if you’ve never cherished someone’s smile – or you did, and that someone was lost – the world is simply disposable to you.

As for myself, I’d always cried over every heartache of life. I bawled for a butterfly caught by a cat. I wept when I brought home an injured bird and my father crushed it underfoot to put it out of its misery. And I was inconsolable when I found out my cruel and offensive first-grade teacher wasn’t coming back to school after summer break because he had a growth in his head that was trying to kill him. I hated that man, but I prayed for him, and cried for days.

My father never cried. He was headstrong and stoic. His excitement for life came directly from my mother. My father needed _her,_ but I was just another forgettable face in the crowd – a child that required constant reassurance – something that my father was unwilling to give the person that slayed his wife.

It’s a lie that you fall in love with your children the day they’re born. It’s a lie we tell ourselves to mask the truth – that our children are born to us as strangers, having the inherent capacity for unmitigated cruelty. We don’t like the thought of birthing the next murderer, the next psychopath, or the next Hitler, so we pretend that it’s impossible. We tell ourselves this lie for one simple, but very important reason: so we don’t grow so fearful of the unknown that we slaughter our children at birth. There is another name for this lie – a more flowery and sickeningly sweet term. It’s been coined _unconditional love,_ though it is very conditional, and has nothing to do with love.

“You don’t have to do this,” says the voice, and it takes me a long, foul breath to figure out who is speaking, and exactly what it is I don’t have to do. There’s a hand on my wrist, and when I look up at him, his glassy eyes look like pieces of a shattered mirror.

We’re both kneeling on the sticky dirt floor, our knees soaking up something that looks like snot, or chicken soup, mixed with mud. There is a putrid thickness in the air – a sweet, fetid heat – sour and sharp like the breath of a dying animal.

Butcher’s pulling my hand away from the shop towels I’m using to sop up the thin, yellow pool under my father’s chair. I’m not leaving. I came here to give him the flask and talk to him, and that’s what I’m going to do. My father doesn’t deserve to sit in this filth, alone and broken, leaking his guts into the dirt.

I don’t speak because I’m trying to hold my breath, and I go back to pushing two pools of rancid liquid together before I gag and heave up another puddle of bile on the floor between my knees.

The sun had fallen while I’d stood paralyzed, staring into the shed. Now a lone, flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling is all that illuminates my grisly task. When I greeted him he was already empty of blood and pus, his life having drained away days ago, with his body folded over the table like he’d passed out drunk. He hadn’t left any whiskey – not that it would have mattered, since the pistol shattered the glass when it hit the table. I didn’t even know he had a pistol.

“You don’t have to do this, Hopper,” he says again, but I don’t believe him. This was what I was supposed to do. In his house, I don’t have any options. In his house, I take care of this shit. I clean up after myself, and this is another one of my messes.

“Hopper …,” he whispers. “Get outside.”

He won’t let me do what I need to. He thinks I’m weak. He thinks I can’t handle this. He’s going to hassle me and get in my way. If he keeps pulling on my arm, he’s going to force me to become violent, and I don’t want to resort to that.

He wants me to stop because my bandage has already been soaked with leakage, and my tired hands shake with every swipe across the putrid floor. But I won’t stop; this is my father. This all belongs to my father. He can’t go to work tomorrow without it. I have to help him. This is my job, and this asshole wants me to stop.

He’s tugging on my sleeve again, but I won’t go. He can’t make me leave this. I need to be here with the blowflies and the stench. This is where I belong. My father knew I was coming; he was waiting for me. This is my punishment for being a terrible son.

An arm hooks my waist and I claw at it. He can’t take me from here. This is _my_ goddamn home!

My knees slip in the mucous, and I grab the legs of the table. He can’t fucking have me. This is where I need to be. I have to help my father, _for fuck’s sake!_

He pries my slimy fingers off the table and drags me away from my father. He’s a murderous, thieving son of a bitch, and he’s trying to rip me away from the only family I’ve ever had.

He backs out of the shed door into the yard and throws me on the ground, where I fall to my knees. I can’t believe he’s doing this to me. I can’t believe he’d be so goddamn cruel.

The world outside is a deep blue, and the breeze is so much thinner than the air in the shed. I double over, clutching my churning belly – I need to get as much of that sour air out of me as I can. I can taste the breath leaving my lungs; it’s sharp, like curdled milk lodged in my nose and throat. I spit in the dirt as that bastard kneels next to me, wiping his hands on a patch of grass. “Talk to me, Hopper.”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know anything anymore, so I blather, “He told me he wouldn’t –” I gag and blubber through what few words bounce out of my chattering jaw. “I wouldn’t have to clean it – why would he say that? I said no gun … I shouldn’t have to clean it up.”

I don’t know what I’m talking about, and I know I never told this shit to him. My mind is a wasteland. I just want to lay in the dirt and die.

The pistol is still on the table, so I dive for the shed door, but he tackles me and wrestles me back to the ground. _“He_ made a choice. You will not. And he’s not your responsibility.”

“Yes he is!” I growl. He will always be my responsibility. “I was supposed to make it right again, not leave him like this.” Then it dawns on me, “Seven … it’s seven now.” I’ve killed seven people. Lucky fucking seven! I slam my hands into Butcher’s chest to get him the fuck away from me, and he fumbles back on the ground.

I scramble away, putting space between us in case he retaliates, and I kneel in the dying tall grass by the shed. This is insane. He’s not dead. Why would he be dead? I look back to Butcher, but he’s neither moved, nor attacked. He’s just staring at me like I’m a goddamn freak. I crawl farther away and sit on the ground, leaning my head back against the corrugated tin. There’s something about the metallic rumble when my skull hits the wall that just feels right. It feels good.

I snap my head back again to hear that _boom!_ and an ache surges through my brain. The agony of reality is drowned out by that sharp blow, so I do it again. _Boom!_ Another wave of grief-shattering pain encompasses my head. _Boom!_ The pain rips through my skull like cracking ice, and I can’t resist its pull. _Boom!_ It shoots around my temples and splinters behind my eyes, and suddenly I’m yanked forward.

His hand holds my sobbing face against his shirt, and I don’t want to let him – I don’t want to be babied, and I can’t stand having others pity me.

“Martyrdom doesn’t suit you,” he finally whispers. I’m not a fucking martyr, and fuck this son of a bitch.

“Why did you make me come here?!” I sob.

“I didn’t make you.”

“You told me I had to come home, you fucking bastard!”

“I didn’t, Hopper.”

“What am I supposed to do now?!” I wail, and his grip tightens across my back. “I gotta go back in. I gotta see him – I need to tell him I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to.”

“What am I supposed to do, you son of a bitch!? Tell me!” I can feel my mind shutting down with every stuttering shriek against his chest. A black fog drifts over my eyes, plunging me into darkness, locking me away from whatever flickers of hope I might try to grab ahold of. I can’t make decisions in this place; the fog won’t let me. I leave it up to fate and spin that goddamn wheel …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 19 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-19-i-never-had-options/).


	20. I am a Coward

I don’t remember standing up, or bolting, or tripping on the broken sidewalk in front of my house. There are telltale signs that it all happened, though – the putrid, muddy knee of my jeans is split open from the fall, and I have a road rash on my chin, just like I had all summer long as a kid.  

The last thing I remember seems to have happened ten seconds ago, but I know it was much longer than that – hours ago, probably, that I twisted and shoved in the trick back door to the old Voodoo corner store just down the block. The place was empty, and when I came out of my panic-induced daze – my mind barely more composed than it had been – I found myself hunkered in a corner of the storage room, about where that Haitian banana altar used to sit. Only now it’s a room full of boxes, with a small wooden desk that I crashed into in my haste to hide myself.

I don’t know why I came here, or what the hell this place is now, but my guts are rolling and I can barely fill my lungs, even though I’m still heaving like I just ran a mile.

Why did I come back home? Why couldn’t I just accept the fact that my life in Louisiana was over the day I left for college, and that my father’s soul died the day I was born? Why did I have to see him? Why did I have to look into his cold, grief-deadened eyes and see the manifestation of the pain and agony that my life forced him to suffer?

That image of his body on the table, bloated and yellow, covered in maggots and staring at my face sends a ripple of nausea through me, and I barely make it to a trash can before I heave up the last undigested bits of the shadow.

My skin is crawling, and if given the opportunity I’d bury myself within the bowels of hell. The best I manage is to rip out the metal chair and scramble underneath the desk to hide within this little black box, within a darkened building, shrouded in night, in the hot, pestilent depths of a swampland. Only the most tenacious of monsters could find me here, and yet those gruesome images chase after me, eager to remind me of what horror I’d caused.

The splatter across the shed wall flickers in my head, but the image is overtaken with the pool of blood that had spread from his mouth until it poured over the edge of the table to crust in a black, cracking pool under his boat.

It happened _days_ ago. He’d eaten that bullet before I’d even made my reckless decision to come home. His body was rotting and splitting open in this southern heat while I cannibalized a shadow and perversely consecrated its death in the back of a blood-filled truck. What is happening to me? When did I willingly enter this living, breathing nightmare? And now that I’m in it, how do I escape?

The handle to the back door clicks faintly, and there’s a clawing at the lock. Something’s coming. Something found me in my hot, rancid cage and it’s coming for me.

The door rushes open, scraping against the ground as it swings, and I bury my face between my knees. Why is it tormenting me? It’s cursing me, and force-feeding me its vile depravity. Why won’t it leave me alone to suffer in peace?

The footsteps enter the pitch dark room and I clutch my sweaty hands to my mouth. My inner voice begs and whimpers inside my head; but the beast is going to hear it if I don’t shut it up. How do I kill it? How do I muffle my own racing thoughts? It’s getting closer and I have to keep it from hearing me – please stop – please stay quiet – _please._

I don’t know what else to do, so I hold my breath and I pray.

Dear God, give me the strength to get through this. Give me the strength I need to keep going, or the will to end it all. I need that gun; I need _my_ gun. Please make it all stop. You can stop this, God. Make it go away. Get it away from me. Dear God, please – _please_ – _please_ help me end this. Give me my gun, God. Put a bullet in it. Give me one bullet – just one, God – _one._ Take it all away from me, and let me go – let me go. Let me see my mother, God. Let me see her once. Give me that, please – _please._ I’ll do _anything_ to see her. Tell me what to do, God, just make it stop. Please make it stop. Please, God, please … in Jesus’ name, God … in Jesus’ name, amen.

The footsteps stop two feet from me, and I can hear the grinding pop of his knee when he crouches next to the desk. I grit my teeth as the trash can scratches across the floor, and I know he’s peering inside. I wasted my breakfast because I can’t control myself. I wasted the flesh of my own shadow.

He says nothing, but his eyes expose me, piercing the darkness to ignite my face. I won’t look. I can’t look at him. I can’t see those red wells be excited by this death and destruction. I can’t watch them grow, and scoff, and laugh at the sight of my cowering face.

My head is engulfed in the flames of his stare, but my lungs feel filled with icy water that aches and burns in my chest. Then that thick, hot, mumbling blanket wicks the water from my chest, dries my back, and dampens that fire as he speaks.

“Even a strong man will run when dealt enough pain,” he says, and I finally inhale with a gulping stutter. “You’re not dead yet, Hop, so I suggest you keep breathing.”

I want to tell him that I don’t want to breathe. I don’t want to be alive any more than I want to be in the black, foggy prison inside my head. I’m tired of running, failing, and being beaten to a bloody pulp, only to find my footing and then be floored again.

“I need my gun,” I mumble. If there was ever a time for God to listen – to be merciful amidst his wrath – maybe it’s now; maybe the chamber’s full, and maybe I’m more like my dad than I thought.

“Give a man a gun, and nature tends to expose his greatest weakness; you don’t need a gun.”

“I’m not a man if I’m a coward. You can’t be both at the same time.”

“Then pick one,” he growls.

I don’t answer him, because I have no answer. I don’t know how to be anything but a coward. I’m not a fighter, so I have to run instead.

My silence forces him to give up on me, and he sits on the floor, leaning back on the drawers of the desk.

The air is suddenly cold as my clothes dampen with sweat. I’m being lowered into the ground, my arms dripping with my own aspirations and tears, and I’m shaking in the darkness when he finally asks, “Do you know why cowards make the best torturers?”

I silently shake my head, despite remaining unseen in my now freezing abyss. He’s staring off into oblivion like he’s addressing a room full of ghosts.

“Their minds overflow with the most excruciating agony that could befall their fellow man. They live in constant fear that their nightmares will become their fate. Their limitless imagination is their prison.” He exhales an exasperated huff, and I wonder what’s prompting all this, when he continues, “They know what fear feels like, what it smells like, what it tastes like. A leader of men doesn’t know these things, but a coward does, and that’s what makes him the most dangerous blight to humanity.”

I am a blight. I wreak havoc and cause pain wherever I wander. I know this already. “Why are you saying all this shit?” I breathe.

“You are your worst enemy, Hopper – not me, and not your father. You’re not only living in a nightmare of your own making, but you torment yourself because of it. You’re a torturer, and you’ve made yourself your most cherished victim.”

“Stop psychoanalyzing me,” I snap. The last thing I need is this monster putting his own damn spin on my worthless life.

“Why? I’ve witnessed what cowards are capable of doing to other men. They are kings of flawed justification. You, however, are capable of far more than them, because you don’t _have_ to be a coward. You have a very rare gift, friend – choice. It’s a shame that you’ve chosen to waste that gift hiding under a damn desk.”

“I don’t have a gift; I have a goddamn curse.”

“Every gift you neglect becomes a curse. It’s time you stopped neglecting it and started cultivating it. What exactly are you running from?”

I don’t even know anymore – my guilt-stricken inner monologue, the bloated corpse of my father, my responsibilities as an ethical human being. Each answer is more pathetic than the last. My existence alone is a scourge on humanity – Butcher even thinks that. Everything I touch turns to ash. Those I try to love, flee, and those I try to help, attack. I’m running from the only thing I can’t escape – my own goddamn self. I can’t continue living, being accosted by my own thoughts and the society I feel compelled to protect. Whenever life points out the mistake it made when I was created, I have to run. “Running is just what I do,” I say.

“How’s that working out for you?”

“Poorly,” I confess.

“At least you’re willing to admit that.” I can hear him stand and retreat into the darkness. “Why a hardware store?”

Is that what this place is? “It was a market. I used to hide here … as a kid.”

“A familiar suffering ground. Maybe you aren’t as unpredictable as I thought.” He bends down and paws the air under the desk until he taps my shoulder. “Are you a man, or a coward?” he asks again. “Your choice, of course. But I’d like to show you something before your mind devours itself.”

His hand is still grazing my shoulder, tempting me out of my self-inflicted pity hole. I’ve been drained of my ability to make rational decisions, so I take his hand and let him decide for me.

I duck out from under the desk, and he leads me through the darkness, tugging my shirt as he walks. He opens the door of the storage room, and we enter the old market. It _is_ a hardware store now, and I feel a little gutted at the sight of it. There are no more magazine racks or baskets filled with sub-tropical vegetables, no mystery roots or incense. It’s just a cold, colorless hardware store.

A street lamp shines its dim light through the large front window, casting long shadows cut by shovel and rake handles. It barely illuminates the locks, wire cages, nuts and bolts, and plumbing fixtures lined up in rows and on hooks across every surface of the store. The bunches of drying plants and wooden masks are gone, replaced by a large banner along the ceiling advertising _Impervo_ enamel paints and their extensive color palette, though every sample is a shade of gray in the darkness.

The only item in the whole place that remains from twenty years ago is a metal sign now hanging over the cash register. It’s still old and just as rusted, and professes the longevity of _Keen Kutter_ knife blades: _the recollection of quality remains long after the price is forgotten._

Butcher drops my sleeve and picks up a bottle of distilled white vinegar from a low shelf, rolling it in his hand to inspect the label. “A common solvent, and useful in the kitchen, but I’d rather see it strip a floor than used with food. Your torturer holds it. What does he do with it?”

What does he do with it? I don’t understand. Who’s _he?_

I’m standing in the middle of chaos, retreating into myself to escape reality, and Butcher wants to play word games?

I scoff and step away. His casual demeanor after the discovery of my father feels like an assault and I debate running again.

“Humor me,” he says, still reading the bottle. ”What does he do with it?”

I clear my throat and push up my glasses with my tingling fingers. I don’t know – I don’t know what he wants me to say. “Common acetic acid, as vinegar like that, isn’t really harmful,” I say, and he cocks his head in apparent disagreement, so I continue, “But it can be irritating to sensitive tissue, I guess – eyes, nose, mouth. Really any exposed skin. If I was being tortured, I’d imagine being submerged in it for a long time would be painful. My skin would be slowly eaten off.” I take a tentative step towards him and squint, scrutinizing the barely visible label on the bottle. “That’s pretty diluted though,” I whisper. “It would take a while.”

“He would need a lot more than the five or six bottles here to fill a tub, and I don’t see a tub, do you?”

Am I wrong? Do I change my answer? Am I losing Butcher’s game? “The smell is intense,” I say, trying again. I scan the glinting hooks and saws lining the wall, cataloging my options in case this conversation goes any further south.

“An intense smell is not terrifying.”

“No. But the unknown is terrifying. Death is terrifying. You can’t die from vinegar ... unless you swallow too much.”

“No one said death. I said torture.”

I grit my teeth as I think, and slowly meander away to inspect the area by the counter. The ice chest is gone. It’s now a display of plaster and wall putty.

He’s watching me pace the aisle as I try to solve his morbid little puzzle while reimagining this store as my memory will allow. It feels like a different world. This certainly isn’t my reprieve anymore. “Why am I being tortured? Information? Punishment?”

“For the pleasure of the torturer.” He's palming the bottle again.

Well, that changes my answer then. “During the trials of the Spanish Inquisition,” I begin, “they used a method of torture called _toca … tortura del agua.”_ Medieval literature was especially interesting to my young, perverse students, so I made sure to cover it during the year. It fascinated, though disturbed, me as well. “My _torturer_ – as you called him – could wrap a rag around my mouth, push my head back, and dump water over my face. It creates a sensation of drowning, and that is quite terrifying,” I say. “He could up the ante with vinegar and intensify it. In fact, he could alternate vinegar with water, or randomize the dumps. I’ll know the sensation of drowning is coming, but not whether it will burn my eyes and nose. I’d also be much less willing to swallow something so acidic. Hypothetically, if my last dousing was vinegar, I may even open my eyes, hoping water will wash it away. If it’s more vinegar, it’s more painful and does more damage. It will eat away my sinuses and slowly blind me.”

“Not a pleasant experience for you at all,” he says, reshelving the bottle.

“But vinegar is a meat tenderizer, too,” I say, “Would be perfect if the torturer was planning to eat my face.” He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even crack a smile. I don’t know what game we’re playing, but it is serious business for both the bulls pacing this shop. He turns his back to me and wanders to a low shelf in the next isle, and holds up a paper sleeve of light bulbs to prompt me again.

“In a fixture,” I say, “He could tape my hands to two bulbs and turn them on. It would be hard to crush them from that angle, and even if I managed to escape the heat, I’d be electrocuted. Eventually my nerves will deaden as I burn, but – on, off, on, off – I could go a long time with my skin slowly _cooking._ Of course, my left hand feels nothing already.” I hold up my hand as I look at him, but he’s still scanning the shelves while I talk, so I drop it back to my side. “Or he could be really sadistic and shove it up my ass. A boot to my tailbone, and pop! No more fun for anyone.”

He peers up at me and clicks his tongue in time with the ticking that I swear to God I hear every time he thinks. What is this game?

His hand suddenly appears, palm up and filled with a handful of what looks like long Philips-head screws. “Forced ingestion?” he wonders.

“No. Scatter them and make me kneel,” I say, and I reach over the shelf and pluck a screw from his hand. “But really, these are too long. They’ll hurt, but shorter screws with flat heads and a sharper tip would be more painful. They’ll upend if I move and shred the skin off my knees.”

“Do you think about this a lot?”

“I think about it all the time. Have you ever knelt on screws?”

“Can’t say I have.”

I drop the screw back in his hand and peek around the shelf at a small display of _Makita_ power tools. “At the boatyard, my old man refused to keep anything clean. There was shit strewn all over the damn place. I’d be trying to help him, but he’d be yelling at me to hold the light steady while he worked, so I’d just grin and bear it. A few minutes balanced on screws will teach you a lesson about paying attention to where you kneel.”

“I imagine it would,” he says, and nods to a row of white boxes. “Lye.”

“That’s too obvious,” I say, and I move on, “Have you ever thought about scalping someone? I mean, how easy it would be?”

“Who hasn’t thought of that?” he snickers.

I point to the tool display. “A power drill – wave it over a person’s head like a magic wand and pull the trigger. You have to hold it steady, but it’ll grab hair and rip out chunks of flesh. For the whole scalp, you’d need something like a drill press – more power and speed. I watched a boy lose a quarter of his scalp to a drill press in shop class once. It was bloody as hell; but I’ve never been a fan of men with long hair.”

A smile finally cracks across his face. I don’t know why I’m sharing this. I don’t know what he’s trying to prove, or get out of me. I feel disjointed, detached from my overwhelming reality. These morbid thoughts have been filling my mind since before I can remember. Every news story on the radio, every warning given by a teacher, every instance of someone around me getting hurt, left me with this visceral reenactment of their pain in my head. I’d lived my life imagining myself being attacked at knife point by kids older than me, or kidnapped and murdered like those two toddlers from my street, or drowning in a storm surge like the poor bastards caught in Audrey while I was safe and dry in my summer apartment in Silver Spring. It feels almost cathartic to finally hear these scenarios bouncing around outside of my skull, and not just when I scream them when I’m alone. Another human being is actually listening to me, without judgment or assuming I’m crazy. Now, what he does with this information has yet to be determined.

While I’m reflecting on this unnerving feeling of relief, Butcher ducks behind the register and grabs a paper bag. He wanders back through the store, dropping vinegar, light bulbs, and a brand new power drill into the bag. When he gets to the screws, he stops and looks up at me as his hand passes over the bins until it’s hovering over the shorter lengths. I nod, and he dumps in two handfuls of half-inch flat head screws.

He hands it all to me and asks, “Anything else?”

I point to the boxes of lye. “Handy to have,” I say, and he grabs one and tosses it to me. He heads back toward the storage room, and I follow. As we pass the register, he leaves thirty dollars on the counter.

“You’re not a thief,” I note.

“One of my many redeeming qualities,” he says with a grin, “What do you want to do now, Hopper?”

I think I want to be a coward for another eight hours. “I need to sleep.”

“Sleep it is,” he says, and we head through the storage room, out the trick door, and back to the shrouded earth, escaping whatever future nightmare we’d just been exploring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 20 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-20-i-am-a-coward/).


	21. I am a Victim

There’s a familiarity to the smell of the fabric wadded by my face when I open my eyes. It’s dusty and damp, like a mildewy basement, and I’m briefly flooded with the anxiety of being late for school. I sit up, dropping the quilt from my face, and glance around the room barely lit by the small lamp on the nightstand.

I don’t remember crawling into my old bed, and waking up in this room, which has remained untouched for a decade, is surreal. I have to pause and take a moment to wonder whether my pathetic life thus far hasn’t just been a horrible dream.

When sensation slowly returns to my body, and a draft hits my bare skin, I realize I’ve been stripped of my bile- and pus-soaked clothes and tucked into bed like a child. Should I feel ashamed of this or not?

Nothing remains in my head but a clearing fog – no words, no thoughts, and the back of my scalp feels bruised and tender. When I reach up, I grip a fistful of blood-crusted hair, and my head echoes with the boom of the shed.

My face is swollen and hot from crying, and I can barely see through my puffy eyes. It’s making the world seem smaller than normal. Of course, I’m also an adult looking across the whitewashed walls of a child’s bedroom. I’m a giant now, and I’m looking back in time at a room that once sheltered a much more innocent me.

When my feet touch the wooden floor, everything rushes back to me like a nightmare that’s been waiting in the wings. His bloated body flashes through my head, then the smashed glass, his purple fingers, the flies, and that horrific, putrid smell. For a second, I think I smell it again, and I cover my mouth, gagging, but it’s not the smell of a rotting body.  

I take a deep breath and think – it smells hot, and I almost panic, thinking it’s a smoldering wire in these old walls, but it can’t be; instead, it’s sweeter like toasted nuts or fresh bread.

I rub my face and debate wandering down the hall to the kitchen to find out, but I take a moment to collect myself. This bedroom used to be my sanctuary. I spent every waking moment in here – reading, writing, and doing schoolwork. I remember the day my father and I finished building my desk. He wanted to paint it, but I was too excited to wait, so there it sits, still unfinished and splintering in the corner, and now covered in a layer of dust with a stained waterline halfway up its legs.

I don’t want to hate him; I never have, and what I’m feeling now doesn’t seem like grief or remorse. It feels like an emptiness from my heart to my stomach. It’s a gaping hole, and I can’t tell if it's because my father is gone, or because my guilt has disappeared now that I’m no longer making him suffer.

Grief is a sickening feeling that balls up in your gut and takes forever to work its way out of your body. It never goes away entirely, though one day, you stop having to tell yourself to breathe. After a while, you realize you’ve stopped crying every hour, and that realization will probably make you hysterical. And then the next day, you might just smile a real smile. You’ll feel bad about it, but you’ll move through that guilt, too. These baby steps take days, weeks, years to accomplish, but no one ever talks about them. I watched students go through them – widows at my old school, and I’ve felt this agony myself. They’re almost as taboo as what Butcher does in his spare time. You don’t talk about grief with your family and friends any more than you talk about your kill count with strangers.

I never knew my mother, so the grief I felt from losing her didn’t seem justifiable. I saw and felt my father’s pain, though. He hardly ate and never slept. It was a very real pain that I watched ebb and flow with the seasons or with the hour, and it compounded my own self-loathing because I chastised myself for not missing her enough. I could never miss her the way my dad could.

When I was old enough to feel and understand my father’s loneliness, I would ask about her, but he’d hold up his hand and close his eyes, stopping me from even saying her name. He never wanted words about her to float between the walls of our home. I think he was afraid of feeling that twinge of hope that she might just hear her name and respond.

I didn’t want to forget her, because according to my father’s brief, drunken ramblings, she was greater than the heavens and the earth combined. She had a chair at the table that never moved. I didn’t dare use it to rummage through the higher cupboards. I feared the wrath he’d bring down on me for disturbing the dead.

The kitchen was mom’s room because in there hung our only picture of her which still remains permanently affixed to the wall – she has dark hair, and her and my dad are standing behind a big white cake.

My mother had also owned a small collection of tea spoons she’d found over the years, and they remain wrapped, laid to rest inside a tin, and stowed in a cupboard over the fridge. They’re sterling silver with roses etched in the handles, and as rough as life got during the war, my dad refused to pawn them. Selling the treasures of the dead was a sure fire way to bring the devil’s wrath to your door. He called it grave robbing, though she was buried a mile away in a plot that took me two months to find on my own.

One of her possessions, though, didn’t stay in the kitchen, but I think technically it was mine. She’d written home thirty-six years ago to tell her mother she was expecting, and received as a reply a package containing _Le Petit Prince._ It still sits on my bookshelf, having been scoured through over a thousand times but never once read. I wanted to take it with me when I left for college so I could eventually translate it, but my father wouldn’t allow it, and I couldn’t fight him. It didn’t seem important enough to wage a war right before I was about to leave him forever. After all, I’d never even met my mom, but he’d gotten the chance to fall in love with her.

That book was one reason I came home; I wanted to ask if I could have it now. It’s still on my shelf, dusty and unopened, the sun-bleached cover now faded with time. I found an English copy when I worked between semesters at a bookstore in D.C. and I devoured it like it contained the words of God.

I don’t know what I was expecting. I probably thought it would make me feel close to her, like if I could just read the same words she had, that it would be like traveling through time and I might catch a glimpse of her in the book or within myself. But that’s not what happened. I think some of the story’s magic had been lost in translation.

Butcher must’ve turned off the light in the shed, because when I peel pack the curtain, the back yard is dull and black. My heart is eternally grateful to not be looking out at that mess.

Despite my lack of attire, I open the cracked door and lean into the hallway. That warm, nutty smell is more intense out here and it’s mingling with a sweet scent of cooked ham. I slowly step down the hall and into the kitchen, shielding my eyes from the light hanging over the metal table.

Butcher’s humming to himself as he works at the counter, whisking something in an old ceramic bowl. The kitchen’s been cleaned and the table’s set with plates and utensils like we’re waiting for the Queen of Sheba. No one ever set the table in this house – not even on Sunday. Hell, most of the time we never even put the food back in the cupboards; we just ate around the edges when the surface became too cluttered with dirty dishes, peanut butter jars, and tinned corn.

He finally peers over his shoulder, scanning my body in a way that makes me briefly debate if I should cover my boxer-clad crotch or my exposed nipples. I opt for neither when he looks away. “It’s not our normal fare, but it’ll do,” he says.

“What’re you doing?”

“Making eggs Benedict,” he says, returning his attention to the bowl. “I don’t often get the use of a kitchen; thought I’d entertain myself while you slept.”

“My father had the ingredients for eggs Benedict?” I scoff. “We never even had milk.”

“Still don’t,” he snickers, wiping his hands on a towel. “But this isn’t a complicated dish.” He peeks into the oven before pulling out a metal sheet of English muffins from inside it like a goddamn television chef.

“The oven still works?” I scoff, and Butcher’s hand wags a so-so. “I can’t believe you made those.” It truly is unbelievable.

“I said it’s not complicated,” he repeats.

I’m still shaking my head in disbelief, but I’m in no state to question his crazy antics anymore. “But what time is it?”

“Two thirty,” he tells me.

In the morning?! No wonder I feel like shit. And why the hell is he cooking in the middle of the night?

He abandons whatever he was working on and turns around, leans on the counter and studies me. I’m about to plop into my dad’s old dining chair, but I stop – it hasn’t been that long, and he might still be trying to find his way over the veil – so I avoid that desecration and fall into my old chair with a huff.

“How do you feel?” he suddenly asks.

I can’t bring myself to look at his face, so I stare at the pearlized buttons running down his shirt. Where does he find these bizarre clothes? “How do I feel?” I repeat. He asks me this a lot. “I feel like I wish I hadn’t woken up, and I’m sorry I ever came home. Regret and I are very intimate at this point.”

“Would you have rather not known? Lived in ignorance?”

“Maybe.”

“Life for the ignorant man is far from blissful,” he says, and truer words have never been spoken. An ignorant man lives in constant frustration. A well-educated man just lives in constant disgust, but he’s rarely frustrated. “What do you make of your _regretful_ homecoming then?”

“Well, I feel like a failure for not stopping him, and I’ll never get the answers I needed to hear.”

“You’re stuck with unanswerable questions,” he says.

“And why now?” I scoff. “Why only days before I came home? Why’d he do it now, after waiting thirty-seven years?”

“More unanswerable questions, Hopper.”

I take a deep breath and finally look up at him. His eyes are amber again, which is unexpected. I was imagining annoyed, black wells. “Why can’t I cope with life? I feel lucid right now, but I also feel like I could crumble at any moment. I feel unstable, and it’s not normal.”

“Normalcy is overrated.”

“Says the man who isn’t plagued by demons,” I say, but I immediately regret it. He has his own bullshit to deal with.

“Oh, they plague me,” he chuckles, crossing his arms, “We’re just friendly now.”

“Me and mine aren’t really on speaking terms,” I say, and I find his laugh and smile oddly comforting.

“Maybe you should be,” he says.

“I’m not willing to listen to their shit any more than I’m willing to listen to yours.”

He snickers and turns back to his task at the counter. “Will you eat?”

My belly grumbles at the thought, and I have to admit, I’ve never been in my own kitchen when it smelled so much like a real home. I nod, and he serves me a steaming plate of eggs Benedict.

“Hot eggs,” he says with a smile, and sits in my dad’s chair. “And they’re a hell of a lot better than the shit they serve in diners.”

“I guarantee they’re a hell of a lot better than any shit that’s ever graced this table,” I scoff. “Cereal, bologna, tomato soup for a decade, and the rationing – it didn’t seem bad at the time, but now –,” I trail off with a grimace. “Once a week, I’d come home from school and he’d have a stack of cans on the counter and a loaf of bread waiting for me,” I say, shaking my head at the memory. “My neighbor up the road would take pity on me and give me food from her garden in the summer. Dad and I lived on beans, rice, and her scraps until the war was over,” I snicker. “But I guess everybody did.”

I look up at him and he’s staring at me, knife and fork in hand, the corner of his mouth painfully cocked like he’s trying to smile, but he’s lost somewhere in thought. His eyes, though, are right here with me. “I’m sorry,” I say, “Ignore everything that comes out of my damn mouth. I lived in paradise. We had food, and were safe. That’s more than I could say for some of the other kids I grew up with.”

“A fool’s paradise is a wise man’s hell, Hopper. No one lived in paradise during the war,” he says, cutting into his egg. He takes a bite and nods, mulling it over his tongue. “Eat, Hopper, or you might go apeshit again.”

I can’t stop staring at him as he eats. I _do_ feel bad about being so casual with the realities of my life. I don’t know Butcher’s reality, and I act like I’m alive in spite of my dad. It’s childish and disrespectful to the horrors Butcher’s witnessed growing up in the middle of a firestorm.

The truth is that my father _always_ came back to me. Sometimes he was late, or the day bled into the night and maybe the next but he did come home. He may have been drunk, or had a split lip, or was yelling about assholes stealing his last nickel, but he was here. And when I came to clean him up and prop him in his chair, he didn’t slap me around just because I walked into the room like my friend’s dads did. Now, he never helped me with my homework, and he may not have kept a full kitchen cupboard, but who did?

What I _do_ remember, is that he didn’t ask me once for money from the cigar-box under my bed, even though he knew it was there and was often desperate. I offered sometimes, and he took it, but he never stole a penny from my “get the hell out of Louisiana” fund.

Sometimes this type of love trickles down through people. There’s a point at which you can’t help that tug of compassion. It keeps abandoned babies fed, roofs over children, and water running through the pipes of a home that doesn’t have the means to pay a plumber. Sometimes compassion is obvious – charities like to exploit this – but other times, love is simply looking the other way, or pretending not to hear, or ignoring your own growling belly. My father loved my mother so much that he’d do these things for her son in spite of himself, and I wanted to love her so much that I would do the same for him.

I remember so much, even though I don’t want to. When not traumatized, the human mind tends to push away the good memories so we can focus more clearly on the bad. I know it’s for the survival of the species – so we don’t repeat the shit that’s painful or dangerous – but it’s unfair to be inundated with memories of a life that may not have been as bad as we remember. It feels like our brains are lying to us because they live in such fear of dying that they’ve become addicted to pain and suffering.

If I concentrate I can still see him bringing home a bicycle after work. It was rusty as hell, but we painted it blue. And I can remember helping him at the dock one day during the summer. His face kept scanning the boats and the buildings, searching for someone or something the whole time he worked. I was confused until he finally saw a man – someone he used to work with. The man had come back to visit family and brought my dad an unbroken, peach-colored, paper fig shell that he found on a beach in Florida. It was in a brown bag and my dad handed it to me, thanked him, and they both left for _The Hateful Snake._

There’s a reason _paper_ is in that shell’s name. It’s a very delicate shell, and I was elated to have a perfect specimen for my collection. I ran it straight to my neighbor lady, and I gushed about how immaculate it was, while she made us both cheese sandwiches to celebrate. If I focus, I can remember it like it happened yesterday. I can smell her old lady perfume – peppermint and moth balls – and I remember how light and airy the shell felt, like it was made of nothing.

As a kid I only saw a summer day wasted working at the dock, and then that shell – it was a new toy, a treasure to show off on my windowsill. As an adult, I now see my dad talking about me to the other mechanics. I see him listening to me blather about treasure hunting while I did my homework. I see him taking note of what else I was looking for while I was picking up bottles at the beach. Why does hindsight have to be so goddamn clear? It creates more pain than you felt at the time, just so you can enjoy a brand new agony decades later.

That shell looks dark in my head now, like someone turned down the lights. It was peach with red streaks, and I feel like I want to see it again; but I can’t. It’s drifting out of view like it’s floating off into a black sea. It’s too dark to see anything now. There’s just a white moon, black water, and dark grey sand in my mind, and my body feels like I’ve been dropped in ice water.

A warmth suddenly spreads across my jaw as my thoughts settle back to earth. A hand is brushing my sweaty cheek, and a thumb creeps up my face, sliding under my glasses to gently open my eye. I don’t remember closing my eyes. Two black wells are staring at me now, and he inhales a deep breath, which makes me do the same.

“You still with me, Hop?” he whispers.

I’m with him.

I’m here.

I wonder what happened to that shell.

His palm tastes like saltwater when it grazes my mouth, and he tugs open my other eye.

“Can you tell me your n–” He stops. I don’t want him to stop.

“Do you know where you are, Cowboy?”

A hand swipes my forehead, brushing back my hair. It feels good. I like it when he touches my hair. I wish he touched my hair more often.

“Rocket, what time it is?”

“Two-thirty,” I sigh.

He snickers, and his hand runs down my neck and pats my shoulder. “Atta boy,” he whispers. “Come on back, son.” His voice is thin and delicate, like a teacup. “You want a drink? Some coffee?” he asks.

Do I want a teacup? “Coffee?” I mumble. Is that what I want? I blink, and my hand is hot, wrapped around a teacup filled with black water. Pink and yellow roses dance around the cup and the lip is trimmed in gold like a Christmas tree. “This is mom’s,” I say, but I was trying to only think that.

“It’s French,”  he says, “Mid-1800s. She had good taste in china.”

I look up, and those wells are just slits now. He’s biting his lip, too, and I don't know why, but he does it all the time. He bit it in the lake when he called me Ophelia. He bites it when he comes inside me. I think he bites it when I come, too … when his mouth isn’t full. I like it when his mouth is full. I wish he’d do more of that.

His voice is soft and breathy, and his words stretch between us like taffy. “There’s no milk,” he says, “but I found sugar. I know you take it black, Hop, but I wanted to offer anyway.”

He’s right; I drink it black. I’ve had to since I was little. “No more milk or sugar,” I sigh, and my head’s shaking. When I started drinking coffee as a kid, I used to load it up with milk and sugar before school. When I was seven, my dad said no more; if I wanted coffee it had to be black. He thought it would stop me from drinking it at all, but I grew to like it that way – just one more memory to cling to.

Butcher’s coffee has sugar in it, though. I guess his folks never cared.

“Drink it,” he says, so I lift it to my lips.

It’s hot, and doesn’t taste like the weak piss water my dad always made. “It’s good,” I say, and I stare at the gold-rimmed teacup as I set it back over my plate. I wasn’t allowed to look at her china growing up.

“Look at me,” he orders. I peer up and blink away the cloud in front of my eyes. “Where are you?”

His voice is as sharp as his suspicious eye slits. I sit up in my chair and clear my throat so it doesn’t crack and make me look even crazier than I feel. “Where the hell does it look like? I’m in my kitchen,” I snap. “We, uh, never used her china. Dad only let me look at it a couple times.”

I blink away the black fog, but now my head’s killing me and the gash on the back of my scalp is on fire. I never realized how often I wipe my sweaty forehead on my shirt until I’m not wearing one. Butcher grabs a towel from the counter and offers it to me, so I wipe the sweat from my face and neck.

“I’m hot all the sudden,” I say. I feel strangely lethargic, and my heart's racing. “I think I’m just – I think it’s shock.”

He barely nods and continues studying me like a doctor again; I feel like I’m losing it, but the room is slowly coming back into focus. I can smell the warm ham in the air and the heat from the oven on my bare back.

“You need to eat,” he says. “Slowly.”

My belly’s empty and my eggs are probably cold by now, but as the throbbing in my head subsides, I finally feel calm enough to try a taste. I cut off a bite and shove it in my mouth with a nervous grin, hoping to dissipate the tension building around me.

I shouldn’t hiss with delight because it seems inppropriate, but when those creamy, lemony eggs and crispy ham hit my tongue, I can’t suppress it. In my dad’s filthy, dank kitchen, this cocksucker can pull a meal out of his ass that would make Julia Child weep.

“You approve,” he says.

I nod as I shove more into my face like a wild animal. “Yeah … I approve,” I mumble, like that should excuse my gluttonous behavior. I’ve inhaled both my eggs before Butcher’s even taken his second bite. There’s no point in even using a fork, so I lean back in my chair and grab another warm English muffin off the counter. I use it to mop the hollandaise off my plate and poke it all into my ravenous maw without wasting a drop. God damn, it’s _that_ good.

“I can make more,” he says, and I glance up to meet his concerned gaze.

“I just … uh, the stew is all I’ve had in days, and after everything –” It’s just an excuse, because what I really need is to fill that gaping hole in my gut as fast as possible. I grab the teacup and pour the whole thing down my throat in a single gulp; I need more.

Butcher casually swaps his full cup and plate with mine and sits there, staring, waiting for me to accept his offer. Should I refuse? Is he fattening me up again? I’ll eat this shit if he’s not going to. I have no shame in this moment.

His eyes are locked on mine and I give up as I start shoveling it down my throat – manners be damned. The only decent food I’ve consumed in the last month, I slaughtered myself on the side of the road, and I’m not sure I want to call that _decent._

“Who would’ve thought your appetite was hiding here,” he snickers and heads back to the counter to replace the breakfast I basically stole out of his mouth.

“You know … uh, my dad–,” I say, and my voice cracks. I take a second to breathe, swallow my food, and manage to continue, “My dad would be shocked to see someone else cooking in here. That was always my job. I’m surprised you found any food in the fridge, honestly. I, uh … I thought he’d be surviving completely on whiskey and smokes by now.”

I stifle a sob as reality hits me in the face and tear off my glasses, letting them clatter to the table, cradling my eyes in an attempt to hold myself together. I thought I was fine. I thought I could ignore the gnawing in my chest. I thought I could remember the good times, and for a few minutes just be eating eggs. I thought I could just enjoy a breakfast that was made for _me_ at my own kitchen table and talk to someone who actually wants to listen. For a moment, my house smelled like a home instead of a diesel-covered corpse. For a second, my dad was out front changing the oil in his bike, and I almost suggested that Butch follow me outside to see the boat in the shed.

“I can’t handle any of this,” I choke out. “I can’t even call the cops to do it for me.” Then it all washes over me like a monsoon – the mugger’s gun shoved in my cheek, my temple being cracked into my truck door, the shadow’s knife slicing across my palm, my father breaking a promise he’d made by plastering his brain all over the wall of the shed … and Butcher – I don’t know what his game is, but it can’t end well – I know it won’t.

I shove my plate away and lay my head on the table, exhaustion seeping from every pore. Up on the wall hangs that photo of my mom – still as perfect as the day I left. Her beautiful, creamy white face and that maple syrup hair flickers in front of my eyes and then vanishes.

My body goes limp and I’m sliding out of my chair. I’m caught as the chair tips and I hear it topple backward. The ground rushes up to my back, and a hand lowers my head to the floor.

I’m numb and surrounded by a white light, so I lay there like a dead fish, waiting for the world to return to me rather than go looking for it myself. I’m not particularly interested in finding it anyway.

When that blinding light fades, I’m staring up at coils of yellow flypaper and Butcher’s upside down face.

“You’re on the floor,” he says, when my ears stop ringing.

“You noticed.”

“Back to bed, I think,” he says with a grin, and holds out his hand.

Stellar idea. I just downed a cup of coffee and cracked my head on the floor. I should try to sleep it all off and just ignore that fact that my father’s rotting corpse is out back. My eyes are already bleary, though, and I feel like I’ve literally hit the bottom of the barrel. Why not go for broke and forget reality exists at all?

Butcher is, as much as I hate to say it, right. Nothing I attempt to do right now is going to change anything, and my belly’s finally full of food that I don’t want to throw up. A few more hours of sleep would probably do me some good. I take his hand and he hoists me to my feet.

Butcher follows as I stumble down the hall and crash into my door like a drunkard. For a moment, after I’d climbed into my bed, he seemed intent on leaving me alone in my room. He’d set down a glass of water next to my bed, nodded goodnight, and headed for the door. When I didn’t reciprocate his temporary goodbye, he stopped in the doorway and waited.

I find it interesting, the liberties Butcher does and does not take. One minute he seems crudely pushy – invading my booth at a diner and calling me twitchy, or demanding that we “get to know each other” in a filthy motel room – and the next minute he’s cold and aloof, like he’s just met me and doesn’t yet know what to think of my unpredictable temperament. It’s confusing, and I don’t know what to make of him, either.

What I do know, however, is that I don’t want him to leave. I can’t say that though, not to his face – my lips won’t move – but he somehow knows what my pained stare means, and his hand falls from the doorknob.

I don’t know what’s changed about either of us. I’m still as touchy as I ever was, and he’s the same asshole he’s been since we met, but his voice has seemed a little less gruff, and he hasn’t hassled me since I left him and Garm in the warehouse lot. Apparently the man can feel compassion toward someone in pain – unless this is all just a ploy, or a unique form of pity to him.

When he strips to practically nothing and lies behind me, it doesn’t feel like pity. It feels warm and gentle, like he’s holding one of my mother’s French teacups. My instinct is to object to this tender affection. I don’t want him thinking I’m weak and delicate, capable of shattering at the slightest drop. But instead of being ungrateful for the company, I focus and enjoy his hand, which seems to gravitate to my gaunt ribs whenever we’re close enough to touch. My ego will have to find something else to worry about, because human contact is currently winning out over pride.

He’s not particularly delicate with my body, anyway. In fact, he seems to lavish it with attention – both gentle and painful. So maybe he does see me as a teacup – just not fragile, but instead worthy of his obscure, sophisticated taste.

I didn’t invite him to trail his nose up my neck or to press his lips into my shoulder, but that’s what he does. I’m grateful, because truthfully, I think it’s what I want and need right now. When his arm crosses my chest and he grips the side of my neck, I no longer feel lost, but rather like I’m being kept and anchored in this place with him.  

I want to forget my life and be dropped into his deep, dark well. I’m not afraid of the darkness in there; there are no murky, lifeless eyes staring back at me. It feels warm and familiar in there, and I know he’s with me.

He brushes back my hair and cranes over my neck to kiss my jaw, and it’s an intense closeness that I need to feel more of, so I roll over and into his chest. His sigh against the side of my face is of strained relief. It’s like he’s terrified of how he or I will react to such closeness. We’ve not really touched like this except as we’ve fallen asleep after some sordid tryst. It feels too close, too much, or too intimate an act.

There is, however, a painful camaraderie that we do share – both in desperate need of something that the other might just provide. It makes me wonder what exactly happened to make him the creature he’s become, so lonely in his touch, and yet brutal.

In the woods behind the Boulder motel, he was raw and feral, tearing the guts from a dead man like an animal. But only an hour later, his fingers, much like now, were barely grazing my skin as he consumed my lips.

What makes him bring human flesh to his mouth with the same fervor that draws my tongue to his neck? I guess it’s the same compulsion for us both – a morbid curiosity, followed by an intense desire to feel satiated.

His bare belly presses into mine, and the warmth and pressure has me forgetting where we are and why we’re here. His tongue in my mouth makes me hope I’m already asleep, surrounded by a world devoid of the pains found only in the physical realm. But you can’t suppress pain without suppressing pleasure, and I’m quickly reminded of this when his hand finds its way down the back of my boxers. That’s a pain I’m almost willing to feel again just to bring him pleasure.

I want to feel him grope my ass and grind himself into me as we both drift off to sleep, even though my heart and my head are still somewhat suspended in that dark fog. His tongue licks up my sweaty neck as his fingers drag through my bloody hair, and he presses on the gash on the back of my skull. Yes, it’s still there – a painful reminder of the putrid shed that I’m trying so hard to forget.  

He bites my lip as he pulls away to sit up and kneel on the bed. “Lay on your chest,” he says.

I shake my head. “I’m too sore.”

He’s insistent though, and twists my shoulder out from under me until I’m flat on my stomach. I don’t appreciate his disregard for my refusal, so I glare up at him from over my shoulder. “I said no.”

He wrenches off my boxers anyway, and I can feel his rough beard across the small of my back as he trails his lips up my spine. “I just want to touch you,” he breathes across my skin, “Nothing more.”

I close my eyes and try to relax into the pillow while his fingertips linger on my hips. He could bite me. He could pin me down and break my neck in this position. He could tear off a chunk of flesh and let me bleed out on the mattress – but he doesn’t. He just tugs the rest of our clothes off and drops them to the floor, returning to my back with a renewed vigor now that he has nothing impeding the reach of his fingers or tongue.

That weight of his body pressing me into the bed sends me back to the woods, crushed against the ground when I felt my first moral fiber snapping. There was something thrilling about the way he took charge then – much like now – giving me the option to do as I wished under those grisly circumstances.

I’m not really a follower of men, nor a leader of them. I am a collaborator, looking for someone to work beside, not for. Butcher watched me kill a man, and I did the same; he watched me defile a body with a knife in the same vein as his gutting of the mugger. He looked into my eyes moments after I’d tasted my first premeditated kill, and he was aroused by it. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t felt the same in Boulder.

I’m enjoying the way he makes me feel – protected though leery, welcomed though suspect. He touches me, and my attention diverts from the horrors of life to the heat of the moment and his body. He makes me forget, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.

The hand snaking under my waist and the teeth scraping over my shoulder have to be more important than whatever tomorrow plans to bring, because I cannot face death when I feel as dead inside as I already do. What gives me hope that I will regain my strength and move on is that when he breathes across my back, I feel alive again.

There’s an intensity brought to the senses after being exposed to death. A sensitivity that heightens your awareness. I felt it in Boulder after we iced down a sack of human organs. Afterward, all I wanted to do was feel Sin’s heart beating in his chest, because the one in the tub would never beat again. I felt it in the back of the truck when I painted Hero’s face with my own blood, because I’d just exsanguinated a shadow onto the thirsty forest floor.

It’s an overwhelming desire to be reminded that life still exists, despite whatever darkness has fallen over you. And now, having looked upon my father – my own flesh and blood – bloated and cold, seeping into the ground outside, all I want to feel is the pulse of Butcher’s neck and the air from his lungs that keeps encouraging me to thrive with every exhale.

He does want to touch me. So badly, in fact, that his hands seem overwhelmed by my bruised and haggard body. I don’t understand his intense draw to my skin, but he paws down my ribs and kisses the flesh barely stretched over my boney spine, savoring every inch of me. His palm playfully grips my ass as he chews on whatever flesh he can tug from my shoulders. But then he lays himself on my back, kneeing apart my thighs in the process.

I want to trust him, but I’m not sure he wants to be trusted; he’s an enigma, after all. It would be a total lapse in judgment to be so eager to drop my guard when I’m this exposed, even with my faithful partner in crime.

“I said no,” I repeat, but that doesn’t stop him.

He reaches under my stomach and pulls my hips up into him as he chew on my ear. “Do you plan to fight me, son?”

“If you make me. There’s a shotgun in this room, and a knife about twelve inches from my hand.”

He snickers and drops my stomach back to the bed. “Not anymore.”

I lunge for the switchblade under the mattress – no luck – it’s gone.

“You nervous?” he wonders.

“Getting there." I slowly retract my hand and realize he’s about as trusting as I am, the snake. He searched my goddamn room while I was asleep.

“If you don’t trust me at your back, then turn over.”

Exposing my cock to him seems more dangerous than exposing my ass. While I’m trying to decide which scenario would be less painful, he yanks up my arm, drapes it around his neck, and drops to the bed beside me. His hand pulls my chest back into him.

“You’re skittish,” he snickers.

“You disarmed me.”

“I did,” he says with a nod. At least I know I’m not crazy for being nervous. “Why would you reach for a weapon?”

“You threatened me.” He cocks his head, clearly disagreeing with me. “What were you doing then?”

“Touching you, just as I said.”

I don’t believe him. That wasn’t touching. That was intentionally intrusive and hostile.

He inches closer until our knees are entwined, and carefully tucks my hair behind my ear. He’s gazing into my eyes when he gently kisses my cheek. “Is this more to your liking?” he says with a grin. “Does the sad boy need coddled?”

This son of a bitch. I grit my teeth, and his eyes burrow into mine like a rat. He’s waiting for my disgusted scoff, or my temper to flare, so he can be right. To him I’m just a twitchy, touchy, little boy getting doted on with my favorite meal, the comfort of his warm hands, and my childhood bed.

I reach up and palm his cheek, pushing his sweaty hair off his brow. He’s relishing his own cockiness, his eyes still probing mine, so I give him a peck on the lips. “The sad boy needs coddled about as much as the desperate cannibal needs a friend,” I say.

He bites his lip through a sneer, and I can feel the fiery indignation radiating off him. I know the knife’s not under the mattress, but I can’t stop my eyes from flicking to the edge of the bed as he cuts me with his stare.

“It’s not there,” he says. “But I bet you wish it were now.”

I huff out a scoff and smile. “You sure can dish it out,” I say, “But boy, you can’t handle a taste, can you?”

If looks could kill, he’d have sliced me wide open by now – spilling my bowels all over the bed. I can feel his fingernails pierce my hip the longer our eyes stay locked together. But I continue in spite of myself, “So tell me, Butch, just how desperate are you? I don’t trust you – hell, I don’t even _like_ you – and yet you want _me_ in the worst possible way. Seems pretty pathetic.”

I’ve never seen a man’s jaw clench so tight that his teeth look like they’re about to shatter. If it wasn’t for his constant goading, I might actually feel bad for him. He _is_ lonely and desperate, but he’s also a big boy, and he certainly likes to make his bed in odd places – like in my childhood room while I’m trying to come to terms with a whole host of grief-stricken realities.

This is not a time for games. This is not an appropriate place or situation to initiate a power struggle with me. If he’s going to start shit, I will gladly finish it.

“If I walk away from you, Sad Boy, you’ll be missing a few pieces,” he says, and I hiss as his grip cuts into my hip. _“When_ that happens, and which pieces, are up to you. But if I were you, I’d hold that pretty little tongue of yours, or I’ll do it for you right now.”

I shake my head and swallow back the sharp pain piercing my leg. He’s bluffing. “Is that supposed to ease my nervousness, Butcher? Still reeks of desperation to me.”

He chews his tongue and snickers, “You said no more lies. I’m honoring that.”

“Well, don’t I feel honored."

Now I want that goddamn knife just to cut a hole in the mounting tension between us. A stone monument has been erected over us and the rocks are piling on. Just when I think the crushing weight is about to collapse my lungs, I feel his grip on my hip begin to lessen. As each fingernail pulls from my warm, wet skin, another rock tumbles from the mountain. When his palm returns to pawing at my ribs, I can feel his hand slipping over my skin, now slicked with blood.

I glance at my red hip. “A loss of control?” I wonder.

“An admonition.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I say. “But I will require that you return my knife to me.”

He smiles. “It’s already in the truck, Sad Boy.”

“Hopper,” I correct. “Perhaps we should finish this groping in the truck then.”

His grin widens and his hand smears over my hip to grab my ass. “A stellar idea, Hopper-Dropper,” he says, and he pulls me to his mouth for an unwanted, but tolerated kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 21 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-21-i-am-a-victim/).


	22. I am a Survivor

When it all becomes too much to bear, I toss the shovel aside and hoist myself out of the hole I’ve been digging for the last hour. This day needs to go fuck itself, because I am one negative thought away from crawling back in that hole with the pistol and never coming out.

The darkness we’re both bathed in is cool, but the humid air is sticking the shirt to my aching back. I’m out here despite the discomfort, digging a grave in my backyard with raw and bloodied hands, because this is what needs to happen for me to leave this place without being buried in guilt. I take this moment to rest my weary body and lean my forehead against a tree, drawing strength from wherever my mind can spare it.

It’s been raining a fine mist since the sun set, leaving the world glistening and musty. My work has provided me a shallow grave cut between two tall oaks, though it’s slowly filling with water. Thankfully, the brush alongside the house has grown up over my fifteen-year absence. Saplings are now tall enough to obstruct our neighbor’s view, which means I can dig a hole in the rain like a maniac and remain undisturbed, though I do have to tolerate Butcher’s eyes burning into me while I toil away. He’s been standing on the other side of the grave, smoke pouring from his lips as he idly pushes around mounds of dirt with a coal shovel he found leaning against the shed. He’s been studying me, though the bastard has yet to offer any help.

My father had always been a survivor. He spent twenty-five years surviving polio, infected bones, a capsized boat, a near drowning, and the loss of his parents to a house fire when he was only twelve. He then spent another thirty-five years surviving the unthinkable agony of losing the only person he ever loved. When his pain finally overtook his ability to cope, he ended it with a pistol in his mouth. He felt he had to do it, and I won’t blame him for feeling that way. He wasn’t weak in that moment; he wasn’t selfish; he was desperate and in excruciating pain. I would never wish that desperation on another living creature.

When I decided I’d put him to rest myself, I grabbed a shovel from the back of the shed. I had to walk past him again, stepping over the swarm of flies feasting in the dirt. It was my mess, and I was going to clean it up.

If I’d had the ability to bury him with my mother, I would have; but their bodies are useless now. Where they rot doesn’t matter. What’s left of their consciousness has already joined the great expanse of energy that surrounds us. If it’s meant to be, they’ll find one another again without any help from me.

The last grave I dug was by hand and for one of the monsters who prayed on my cowardice. This one’s cleaner, more respectful, and for one of my demons I should’ve been talking to this whole time.

“You missed your calling,” snickers Butcher through a cloud of white smoke.

I twist my head against the tree to look at him, barely visible through the darkened rain. “My what?”

He points to the sharp corners of the grave with his shovel. “You should’ve been a gravedigger. When given a spade, you make a nice, square hole.”

I scoff and look back at the base of the tree. I make a nice, square hole, apparently. “Who said I _missed_ my calling?” I snap. “I’ve got plenty of time to go into this business. I can practice on that shadow in the truck; it’s not getting any fresher.”

He chuckles, “You’re impressing me, Hop. Gravedigging’s not easy. I should know.”

“I’d imagine your graves are a hell of a lot smaller than this one.”

He takes a long drag and smiles. “That they are. Most of the time a dumpster makes a fine enough casket.”

He’s so goddamn disrespectful. All the world’s a joke to him, and I’m just a twitchy pleb wearing funny glasses who apparently missed his calling as a churchyard fossor. I finally build up my strength, only to cave again, “Will you help me bring him out?” He remains silent, so I figuratively bite the bullet. “Please.”

His tone softens, and I can hear his smile falling from his voice. “About time you asked.”

He follows me back to the shed, and we’re now faced with the task of hauling out what’s left of the man that raised me. This shed will have to be torn down – probably better torched, too. You don’t get the smell of death out of anything; it somehow permeates wood and metal just as readily as cloth.

Butcher’s staring at my green face when he asks, “You want me to do this?”

Absolutely not. My last image of my father is not going to be of this asshole dragging him out to my perfect hole and rolling him in like a fetid log.

I hold my breath, step inside the shed, and stand behind the body, trying not to hurl all over his unfinished boat. My hands creep along the back of his chair, and I’m about to yank it out, when I stop and look up at Butcher. His eyes are wide and he’s biting his lip, and I can discern a slight shake to his head. I let go of the chair and step out of the putrid shed again to breathe. “You have a problem?” I ask.

“You were going to yank out the chair,” he says, and I nod. What’s his point? “That’s not a great idea.”

“Then why not just say that? You think I’m an expert at this?”

“I don’t want to interfere with your decisions.”

“That’s not _interfering;_ that’s called  _helping._  Are you helping me or not?!”

He nods and looks back at the body. “You _don’t_ want him to hit the floor,” he says. “If you ever choose to trust me about anything, now’s the time.”

I squint at him, suspicious of his concern; but I’m inclined to trust a murderer when it comes to bloated corpse removal, so I agree. “Wheelbarrow? Delicacy? Suggestions, please.”

“A tarp,” he says, and that sounds good enough to me. I hold my breath and hurry to the back of the shed. From the doorway I hear him hiss and say, “If you’re looking for the black tarp that was back there, I borrowed that one.”

What the hell does that mean – he borrowed it? Is he stealing shit now? I can’t keep hanging out in this overwhelming cloud of stench, so I leave the shed again, dragging Butcher with me until we’re out in the rain. “What do you need a tarp for?”

“They’re useful, and he doesn’t need it … well, he didn’t an hour ago.”

“And you need it for what?!”

He points back inside the shed. “That is more important to worry about I think.” Honestly, this circus is beginning to wear on my last goddamn nerve. “I saw another tarp on the porch roof,” he says.

After thirty minutes of dangling off the roof, tearing at the shredded tarp in the middle of the pouring rain, we finally get my father hauled out to the gravesite in the darkened woods behind the house.

Butcher, that asshole, lifts up his muddy boot to roll my father into the grave, and I yank him away. “What the fuck are you doing?! Don’t kick him into the hole!”

“What does he care?!” he shouts over the downpour. “He’s a bag of rotten meat covered in flies!”

“Just step back! I’ll do it!” I snap, and I push the coal shovel into his chest. My father deserves more than a boot to the ass; I lift up the tarp and attempt to roll him over.

Something to note about bloated corpses, is that they don’t roll like one would assume. They’re heavy, and dense, and the gas-filled organs shift and leak. It’s horrifying. There’s also a slight slope to the ground that makes it feel like I’m attempting to roll a two-hundred-pound pyramid up a hill.

When the damn body won’t budge, I glance up at Butcher’s smug-ass face to see him not even bothering to suppress his goddamn smirk. “Help me!” I snap, and he raises his foot again. Fuck it all. I stand up, and together we kick the body into the grave. It lands on its belly with a _whomp,_ splashing swamp muck out of the hole like a malodorous geyser.

The rain’s picking up, growing louder as it hits the tarp. Not wanting to draw attention to the noise, I wad it up and toss it onto my father’s back. This is a fucking nightmare.

Butcher’s already slopping mounds of wet dirt on top of the body while I sit like an idiot on the uneven rocky ground. When my ass starts aching, I realize I’m sitting on the goddamn flask, and I pull it out. This was the reason I came here. This was supposed to be my day of reckoning. I was going to settle the score, right my wrongs, and let go of my old life; and now I’m sitting in a rainstorm at the muddy edge of my father’s grave, watching a man I call Butcher poke at a pile of dirt.

“What’s this?!” he calls over the pounding rain, and I toss the flask over my shoulder in exasperation. What the hell is it now? I sit up on my knees and swipe water from my glasses with a muddy finger. His shovel’s flicking at a small pile of bones poking out of the mud.

Oh my god. “Patches?!”

Butcher’s puffing away on his smoke and staring at me like I’m insane. “What the hell was Patches?” he calls.

“My neighbor’s dog!” I cry. “I loved that dog!”

He scoffs and nudges the bones into the soggy grave. “Bye-bye, Patches,” he says.

“Hey! Show some goddamn respect, you asshole!”

“It’s a dog, Hopper – let it go. He can play with your daddy now!”

I rub my muddy hands into my eyes, wishing this day would end already. It's still going, still raining, still eating away at my last–

“Hopper! Get your ass off the ground and finish this! This is _your_ goddamn mess!”

I grit my teeth and stand, grabbing my shovel from the ground, and start hurling clods of dirt into the grave. “What’s your fucking hurry?!”

The red ember from the cigarette between his fingers rises, and he points just over the roof of the house. “Dawn,” he shouts. “That’s all you worry about right now!”

Goddamn it, he’s fucking right. I throw down my shovel and use my arms to shove mountains of dirt into the hole, while he tosses rocks that just thud and bounce off my father’s back.

Eventually, as the rain lets up and twilight turns the air a deep, dark blue, we finish filling the grave. We’re both covered in mud, and Butch is in the shed now, doing whatever the hell he does. I lean my back against a tree, close my eyes, and try to figure out just when the hell my life derailed to bring me to this pitiful moment in time.

I finally open my eyes when something punches me in the chest. Butcher’s rapping the flask against my stab wound, and I snatch it from him, wincing.

“Do what you will, but we need to go,” he says.

This selfish bastard has no respect for anything, least of all the dead. I unscrew the cap, down the remnants of Jack, and hurl the flask into the woods. “Happy?!”

“That I am,” he snickers. “You ready to go?”

“Can’t I say something?! He was my father!”

Butcher waves casually toward the gave, and we both step up to the mountain of mud and sticks slowly being illuminated by the breaking sun.

“I don’t blame you, Dad,” I say, but I stop. This feels embarrassing with Butcher standing over my shoulder. This is too private a matter to have this asshole gawking and laughing at me – relishing my emotional trauma while he remains unfazed by anything even remotely human.

I take a breath and try to focus on what I need to say to let everything go. I had a million words just eight hours ago, and now it doesn’t seem like enough, even though I can’t remember a single one.

I don’t get to apologize. I don’t get to forgive him to his face. I don’t get to ask him about my mom, and I never will. I don’t know if he wanted to talk to me. I don’t know if he was scared in his final moments. I don’t know what straw finally broke him, because he’s gone.

As I slowly exhale, I feel a hand slide up my back and grip my shoulder. I’m paralyzed until his fingers clench and he leans over, nudging my temple with his forehead.

His soaked hair clings to my cheek, and he twists his head against mine to blow smoke over the grave. His warm lips return to me, grazing my cheek until they meet my forehead with a peck. His hand grips my shoulder one last time before he leans away, ashing his smoke on my father’s final resting place. For a man with so much shit to say about everything, he certainly has a way with silence.

“I don’t blame you, Dad ... and I want you to know that,” I continue with a sigh. “I think we both needed forgiveness, and even though you never gave me yours, I want you to have mine.

“I knew you were alive and grieving down here, and knowing that I was the cause of it made me afraid to come home and face it all again. I know that makes me a coward, but that’s what I am. I knew you were alone, and if I came back, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to leave again.”

The rain is merciful and lets me hide my tears in peace, even though my voice betrays me with every crack.

“You raised me to where I could take care of myself. You got me out of the house and on a path that led me away from your pain. You did your best, and I want you to know that I see that now. You took your life where you needed to take it. But I’m going to hope every day that you meant for this to be your final gift to me. Mom gave me her life, Dad, and you gave me your death, and I wanted to thank you for it.”

My freezing wet shirt presses against my back when he moves behind me, hugging me to his chest while I speak. At any other time I might elbow him away, but I can’t seem to find the resolve to finish this alone.

“You broke that grief-stricken tether yourself, because you knew I couldn’t do it,” I say. “I’m sorry this was the only way you felt that could happen. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough for both of us, Dad. And I’m sorry I never got to say good-bye. Give mom a kiss for me.”

Butcher’s mouth presses against my wet shoulder, and I really don’t want to move, so I let the shovel drop to the ground and relax back into him. This is it now; I’m officially alone in this world.

His mouth rubs across my shoulder as we both stare over the grave. I can feel his impatience growing as the sky lightens with every tick of his thoughts. He breathes into my ear, kissing me on the neck, and whispers, “We have to go.”

I know we have to keep moving. All the commotion around my reclusive father’s home is bound to draw suspicion if we don’t get the hell out of here quickly. I’m still a fugitive after all.

“Garm’s wet nose is waiting for you,” he jokes. He knows damn well that I like the dog more than I like him. At least when she bares her teeth, I know how she’s going to attack. This bastard might not go for my throat when the time comes. I have a lot of soft spots, and it feels like he’s already tasted every single one.

“I’m going to grab a few things, then we can go,” I say.

He nods, nuzzling into my neck again, and asks, “So where we headed, Hopper?”

I’m not making any more goddamn decisions. My head’s about to explode as it is. “Anywhere but here, Butch."

“Colorado it is,” he says, then he lets me go.

Colorado? Is he insane? “Screw Colorado, Butch, we aren’t going anywhere near Boulder.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t have a choice. We’re out of food. My guy’s it.”

 _“Fuck_ Colorado, Butcher. My face is all over the state! We’ll go to a goddamn grocery store for food. That’s what normal people do.”

He shakes his head, and the finality of that is tangible. “You pick where we go, or I do,” he says.

I could’ve said Maine, Seven Devils – hell, getting hijacked on the way to Cuba sounds more tempting than Colorado – but I don’t. I just freeze up trying to think of a state that felt even remotely safe to me.

When my indecision gets the best of me, he says, “Then Marianne decides,” and he pulls a strange gold coin from his pocket.

“What’s that?” I ask, yanking his hand to my face. It’s a twenty-franc gold coin with a woman’s face on one side and rooster on the back. He withdraws his hand and flicks it up, catching it before it hits the ground.

“Mary follows you, and the cock follows me,” he says with a smile. The goddamn dick jokes are getting old. “And we’ll let daddy pick.” His thumb tings against the coin and it flips off his finger, spinning over and over as it arcs away from us and lands in the freshly-turned dirt of my father’s grave.

I don’t want to look at it. I have no idea where to go next; every option feels more hostile than the next. But we cannot go to Colorado; that I’m sure of. Luck’s never been on my side, however, so when Butcher leans over the grave, I do the same.

My face goes slack and he snickers as he looks up at me. “Surprise, surprise,” he says, and I briefly wonder if a shovel to his temple wouldn’t wipe that fucking grin off his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 22 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-22-i-am-a-survivor/).


	23. Cut Adrift

This is my life now – lying flat on my back like a corpse and staring at a taupe-colored ceiling puckered with upholstered buttons, enjoying the constant stream of dull aches that flow across my skin like muddy lake water. I smell like a lake, too – a lake filled with peat and wet dogs – and the stench has my stomach coiled in knots.

I’ve been staring at the ceiling of the sleeper, playing with my switchblade for forty-five minutes, popping the knife open and folding it closed while I sway with the moving truck. The thick curtain’s been snapped together, partitioning me away from the world like a sick and mutilated dog caught in an abandoned trap. Bits of sun leak around the edges of the curtain, warmly illuminating my crate so I can fully appreciate my unrelenting loneliness in all of its glory. We’ve been on the road all morning, though I have yet to build the strength to find out where exactly this road is leading us. I’m just happy to finally be static and undisturbed, though the smell is somewhat suffocating.

My nails look black in the dimness, but I think I remember brushing my teeth and washing my hands before we left; it’s all a blur. I’d stormed the house, throwing everything I could think of into my old school satchel: books, trinkets from my room, and anything I knew my mother had touched – and then joined Butcher and Garm in the truck. I was dizzy and nauseous, the only food in my belly having been the eggs Butcher had prepared for us at two-thirty earlier that morning, since I’d lost my breakfast in the back of the Voodoo-turned-hardware store.

After I’d climbed in the truck, I was ordered to lie down as though my aching feet and gritty eyes weren't already headed to the bed themselves. We briefly had words about returning to Colorado, but I just couldn’t rehash my argument. He knows going back is asking to get caught, but since it’s not _his_ head on display in every shop window along 80, what does he care? Only I and Tom Selleck care.

When I woke up, I found myself freshly bandaged again, my knife lying next to me in the bed. Finding it by my side, I had a brief moment of hysteria, grappling with the reality that Butch took the time to protect me against himself, as though it’s at all comforting to be tucked into bed by a murderer who’s so fickle that he needs to arm his potential victims, just in case he gets overzealous before he intends to.

I’ve been clicking the blade open and closed, mesmerized by the feeling of having it back in my hand after fifteen years. I found the damn thing at the boatyard one day. It had been dropped and wedged between two boards of the dock, and I had to use a screwdriver to pry it out.

It’s not a long blade – three inches – but it’s sharp. The dark brown, modeled handle is, I think, made of horn – not a cheap knife. The hilt has tiny hooks on either side of the blade, intended to remove spent shotgun shells. One side pulls twelve gauge shells, the other side sixteen. It would’ve been treasured by my father, had he known that I found it.

“You going to keep playing with yourself back there, or hop up here and keep me company?” says a gruff, disembodied voice.

Of course he’d find a way to goad me, but I’m starting to get used to his incessant teasing. He’s right, however; I should at least find out what state we’re in.

I sit up, unsnap the curtain, and crawl over the console, trading spots with Garm, who worms past me to hop on the bed. The midday sun is blinding, but at least I’m upright and in a comfortable seat. Over the last few weeks, my body's known only three perpetual states – fleeing in terror, comatose, and gravedigging – and frankly, I’m getting pretty goddamn sick of all three.

When my eyes adjust, I look down to find Butcher’s tan shirt buttoned to the middle of my bandaged chest. That seems strange, but at least I’m wearing my own jeans, though they’ve been replaced by my least filthy pair.

“Did you redress me while I was passed out?” I ask.

“Played with your balls, too,” he snickers. Why do I even try to remain dignified around him? “You were muddy from the neck down,” he explains. “I didn’t feel like scrubbing the bed again.” He pops a second smoke in his mouth, lights it and hands it to me, so I nod and we both enjoy our nicotine lunch.

“Don’t tell me it’s been three days,” I sigh.

“Maybe seven hours.” Lucky number seven.

The windshield frames a new landscape – one that’s flatter and drier than Louisiana or Missouri. Yellowing grass and patches of scrub pepper the ground on either side of the road, which stretches out in front of us to end at the bright blue sky kissing the horizon. A sign for Wichita Falls rushes past the window and when I glance at the map tucked between the windshield and the dash, I realize where we are. I’ve never driven through Texas before. In fact, I’ve never been anywhere in the southwest and now I can’t stop thinking about Butcher’s love of Vegas. He used to live out here, so I’m sure this route will get us to Colorado far faster than backtracking.

“Is this Colorado thing a good idea?” I wonder. “We’re heading straight back to ground zero.”

“Isn’t that the last place they’ll look? One doesn’t typically bomb the same spot twice,” he says. “I’m due up north anyway. I’d have abandoned the order if you’d picked a different heading, but it’s probably better that you didn’t. My guy appreciates punctuality so I’d hate to disappoint.”

Well that’s nice – courtesy amongst thieves.

“What kind of person is this guy? A rancher?” I highly doubt he’s a typical law-abiding citizen.

“He’s eccentric.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“I’m sure you can’t. We’ll go over the rules when we get there. He’s a bit temperamental.”

I can’t stop imagining some lunatic cult leader, bearded and dressed in white robes, blessing and butchering bodies in his bathtub. I’m picturing my ex-wife. She wore a lot of white dresses for a person with so much dirt on her hands.

“You mind humoring me for a second?” he suddenly asks.

I’ve got nothing to lose by humoring him. Games are just a way to pass the time between here and certain death. “Probably don’t have a choice, so go ahead,” I say, ashing out the cracked window and enjoying the scenery again. It looks so goddamn peaceful out here, and the sky is endless.

“Your daddy’s dead,” he says.

Poignant and straightforward. “This is true.”

“And how’re you dealing?” he wonders.

Smoke’s pouring out of my mouth, so I must still be breathing. I guess I’m coping, but not in the way I’d imagined. Losing one parent was miserable enough. Losing a second wasn’t a peach either, but my father’s death hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting. I’d always cared about the man like you’d care about a good dentist. When I desperately needed him to fix a nasty problem, he was there, much to my relief. I made sure to tiptoe around his flighty nature and never piss him off because it’s hard to find a good dentist who you can call in the middle of the night and won’t charge an arm and a leg.

I’d always assumed I’d get notified with a phone call saying he’d had a heart attack at work, or he drunkenly wrapped his bike around a tree, or he took the boat out and never came back.

I didn’t know what it would be, but a bullet hadn’t crossed my mind since I was a kid. I was expecting to make his funeral arrangements, then stand there in a monkey suit, nodding to the people who’d only come to gossip about how he died, or to see what the hell I’d turned into.

Old, nosy biddies and their hunched-over husbands would’ve shuffled in – a parade of mothballs and peppermint – to whisper about how slack my old man’s jaw looked in the coffin. I’d have gotten a tug on my sleeve and heard, “Boy, I’d talk to Goldman about that jaw. He looks awful. You should’ve made him stitch it up tighter before he let people in here to see it.”  

I’d have nodded and immediately regretted the open casket viewing. “Goldman’s a good man,” I’d have said, “And I don’t think Dad would’ve cared.”

“Gonna bury him next to your mama?” he’d have asked.

This is where I would have sighed and said, “That’s the plan.”

“Shame about her. She was God’s gift to this earth; sweet as the day is long. Just an awful, awful way to go.” He would’ve tipped his hat and patted my shoulder and said, “You have a good one now, son.” And then I’d have thanked him for coming, and for a brief second or two, I would’ve contemplated hanging myself in the shed as soon as I got back to the house. I probably would have, too, now that I think about it.

My father had always been there – a crazy man in a moldy house, both a little rough and deteriorating. That buoy had been anchored right there in Baton Rouge my whole life. I was never really homeless, I just hadn’t gone home in years. I was never really jobless because if push came to shove, he always needed help at the boatyard, and he said I was a better worker as a kid than most of the other men. He was all I had, and he was a safety net – a surly, superstitious, diesel-soaked safety net.

So how am I doing now that daddy’s dead? I’m fine. But I’m a man in the market for a new net.

Butcher’s still waiting for me to answer, giving me time to mull over what the hell’s been happening to me.

“I think I’m alright,” I finally admit.

“That’s good to hear,” he says, clearing his throat. His voice has lost the gruff edge it had moments ago. He pauses, sniffing his nose, looking flustered by his own thoughts. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I know that was rough for you. If there’s anything you want to talk about, know that I’m listening. If you need something, Hopper, I want to help.”

I don’t mean to snigger, because he’s being serious, so when I do, he scoffs and looks out the window. Ten hours ago I was groping for a knife because the bastard threatened to jump me and eat me alive, and now his own soft, white belly is starting to expose itself. He wants to _help_ me. What a goddamn sweetheart.

“I’m sad, Butch,” I tease, and he waves his hand at me. “Maybe you should pull over so we can cuddle.”

He’s shaking his head and gritting his teeth as he stares down the road ahead. “You know,” he huffs, ”I offer to help no one.”

“And because of that, I am truly honored,” I snicker. “Honored to be your first, Butch. I feel so special now.”  He hisses through his teeth, sneering at me, and bites his lip – not necessarily a playful sign. “That reminds me, where’s your knife?” I ask.

“In my hand,” he snaps.

“No, that’s not your knife; that’s your dick. You probably shouldn’t confuse the two. That’s an accident waiting to happen,” I joke.

“Keep it up,” he growls. “And I might just leave you in Colorado to be ground up and cured.”

I’m still laughing when I feel my guts gurgle at the mention of food. “Speaking of being cured, do you have any more of that jerky?”

He glances at me, and I know what he’s thinking. Things are different now; I’m in survival mode. Beggars can’t be so choosy that they let social norms starve them to death. What the hell would be the point of that?

He quickly scours his door and tosses me the wrinkly brown bag with a tiny scrap of jerky at the bottom. It’s just as I remember – peppery molasses. “Sorry to finish it off,” I say. I probably should have offered him the last piece. That was kind of rude.

“We’ll have more soon enough. Don’t you worry about it.”

I can’t believe I spit out my first taste; this shit’s really good. “So this guy you know, is he like a buddy of yours?”

“I guess you could say that. We only speak three or four times a year – at drop off, and again at pick up.”

“So, how the hell does that work? You bring him meat, he asks no questions, and just dries it for you?” He bites his lip and peeks at me from the corner of his eye. “I take it there’s a lie in there somewhere that you’re about to confess.”

“He knows what he’s doing for me,” he admits. I knew it. No decent meat man wouldn’t know the difference between beef, pork, and human flesh. “I keep what I intend to consume fresh in the truck and leave the rest with him, bones and all. He processes it to my specific standards, and I pick it up packaged and ready for the road.”

“What are friends for?” I scoff, staring out the window. “You pay cash, no questions asked, and he gets to feed his own perversion … which is what, exactly?”

“Living off the grid, off the land, off the man. Keeps a portion of the meat for himself. He never comes down from the mountain. There’s no need to.”

Well, this guy sounds amazing. “So you’ve watched what he does? You trust him?”

“I taught him half of what he knows. He was using rudimentary tools and crude techniques when I met him. I stayed with him for a few months – streamlined his setup. Got him washing his damn hands, and gave him that recipe you’re drooling over now.”

He stayed with him? For months? He groomed him to be the butcher he needed. Makes me wonder what the hell he’s doing with me.

“Was he like … what we are?” I wonder, wagging my hand between us. I’m not worried, just curious.

He finds that prospect rather amusing and relaxes back against his headrest, but what he’s imagining is not what I meant. “And what exactly are we?" he asks, but I just stare out the window. I'm not biting, and I refuse to let him make me look like a doe-eyed teenager, so he continues without a response, "He’s an associate, Hop – a man I do business with, and nothing more. Pretty shade of green your eyes are turning, though.”

“I’m not jealous,” I snap. “I just want to know what kind of hornet’s nest I’m walking into.”

“I’ve never fucked the hornet.” That is a horrifying image. I honestly didn’t care if he’d _fucked the hornet_ or not, I just don’t like dealing with territorial men. My ex was a whore. I was forced to deal with a lot of assholes, despite that fact that _I’m_ the one that should’ve had a problem with _them,_ not the other way around.

This is all very disconcerting. People living in seclusion – surviving in a bizarre underworld – are secretive. They have their close acquaintances like Butcher, and they don’t stray far from their path. Throwing a new person like me into the mix can’t go well. Colorado Guy’s bound to get flustered and nervous, and since the man is a cannibal butcher, he’s probably a lot more dangerous than what I’m being told.

Butcher already knows I’m unhappy about this trip north, but before I can press that issue further, he moves on. “Do you still have any friends of your own, maybe from college?” he asks, “Or are you really the lone wolf you make yourself out to be?”

“Never had the time nor the desire for friendship. I was the kind of student that would sit all the way in the front and pester the shit out of teachers, because no one else was willing to talk to me.”

“Make any friends that way?” he snickers. “Maybe to fix a grade or two? Earn a little extra credit?”

“There was someone – my creative writing professor. And no, I didn’t sleep with her. I was just really interested in storytelling.” She was sweet, but a spitfire. Never took shit from anyone and had long, red hair. “Maybe two months into the class, and after I’d written probably a dozen short stories, she asks me to stay after. She sits me down and flat-out tells me that I’m one of the smartest kids she’s ever met.”

“I take it you didn’t hear that a lot,” he notes.

“I was _special_ when I was a kid. I had to see doctors and sit at a desk in the back of my classrooms because I bothered the other kids when I cried or got nervous – you know, I was _twitchy.”_ I glare at him, but he just nods, and despite how private and personal this story is, I feel compelled to continue, “So my professor told me that one out of every ten people I’d meet throughout my life was going to be smarter than me. At the time, I took it as a weird back-handed compliment.”

“If only _one_ is smarter, then nine are dumber, Hop.”

“Yeah, I figured that out,” I say. “I questioned her, and she said it would be obvious who was who, and that now that I knew what to look for, I could be more mindful and compassionate to those not born like me. I guess she meant those not born as perceptive as me.”

“Intelligence is a rare gift, Hopper, as is perception. Ignorance is very limiting.”

“She felt like that too. She called ignorance a cage,” I say, and I can see her in my mind, clear as the sky stretching out in front of us. She was sitting on her desk, legs crossed and likening men to animals. People, at their basic, primal cores, are confused about life, trying to figure out which path will yield them the least amount of pain. “She said men fight to get out of their ignorance, because they’re frustrated and scared, and they’re just trying to survive,” I continue. “Sometimes they rest and gather strength in their stagnant, monotonous life, and then they snap and start flailing wildly again to escape. They’re frustrated and can’t handle that confining cage, panicking and pissing all over themselves.”

He nods and exhales a white cloud of smoke that slips out the cracked window. “Some people are born with the tools they need to cope, Hop, others have to find those tools. The really unlucky ones don’t get either luxury. The poor bastards are stuck rattling their cages – bloodying their hands on bars that won’t budge and busting out their teeth on a lock they can’t pick, and they don’t even know what’s happening to them.”

What does one do when you can see others struggling and you have limited means to help them? You can’t possibly save them all, so how do you choose? You don’t, so you give up and help no one but yourself. “She said that most of the people I’d meet will think _I’m_ the one in the cage, because when you’ve only ever looked through bars, all the world’s locked away.“

“And you, I take it, are not in a cage?”

“Well, she vehemently disagreed when I said that I’d been caged all my life. She said I was not only free of those bars, but that I could see them around others. When I asked her what I was supposed to do about it, she said that instead of pointing at those _'busting their teeth on locks’_ – as you so eloquently put it – that I had a choice. I should help them stay calm, care for their injuries, or open their cages. She told me I had a good heart and like a fool, I believed her.”

He scoffs and says, “I’ve never been a fan of sharing unearned wealth, but you really are altruistic, Hopper; it’s kind of cute if not naive.”

“Don’t call me cute,” I sneer, and he dismisses me with a playful wave of his cigarette. “I lived like that for a long time, trying to help the vulnerable. I’d sit at the edge of their cages, listening to their problems; I’d be that shoulder for them cry on. If I could, I'd reach through the bars and tend to their wounds. I’d even pick a lock on occasion.”

“And what came of that I wonder?”

“You can about imagine – once you open a cage, out fly the teeth.”

“Scared and tortured animals’ll do that,” he says, and I nod.

You never want to believe that the creature you’re trying to help will inevitably hurt you, but it happens. Most of the time, you don’t notice these heartbreaking acts because you can’t take it personally. It’s never the dog’s fault it bit you; it can’t trust humans after a lifetime of abuse. It’s not the horse’s fault it kicked you; it’s unbroken and you spooked it. Morality is inconsequential to beasts; they know no rules except those of survival. A stranded dog’s bite is no more an act of cruelty toward its rescuer than a fish’s wriggle off a hook is an act of spite toward a starving fisherman lost at sea.

“The teeth weren’t the only side effects of opening cages, though,” I continue, “after a while, I’d started opening cages just to find a safe place to hide from the people I was trying to help.”

Butcher hums and flicks his spent butt out the cracked window. “You turned other people’s cages into your own prisons.”

“My prisons and my sanctuaries.”

There’s a long pause – not uncomfortable, not unwarranted – just an intake of air and an exhale that lessens the weight on my shoulders. I’d never repeated what she’d said to me over a decade ago. Sometimes I wondered if I hadn’t imagined it all just to make myself feel better about being such a failure all my life. Repeating her words now though, I can hear them bouncing around the air of the cab, being heard and understood by Butcher, and it brings me an odd sense of comfort. It bends my own perceived bars and breaks open my self-imposed lock. I still feel like that wounded, trapped dog but suddenly my door’s just been swung wide open.

This world that awaits me outside my bars, however, doesn’t feel hostile. It feels accepting of my flaws, and as I ease out, I don’t find myself attacked or being coaxed; I’m welcomed and offered food and a warm bed if that’s what I choose. The arrangement doesn’t seem that unfavorable to someone as lost as I am.

“What became of your professor?” he suddenly asks.

“She got pregnant halfway through the semester and took a leave of absence. I scraped by with a D, because after she left, I couldn’t find the thrill in writing anymore.”

He groans to himself as though any of that should be a shock at this point. “You’re the most pathetic creature I’ve ever met,” he snickers. “But fuck me, you’re cute as hell.”

“Let’s not start throwing insults.”

“Better than throwing knives,” he chuckles.

“Hey, I can take a goddamn insult – I’m a pro at it by now – but you, on the other hand, are a delicate little teacup. I’d hate to shatter your ego with something as sinister as a simple observation.”

He chuckles and shakes his head at my flagrant audacity which has to be grating on his nerves by now. “And what’s that observation, Hop? Enlighten me.”

“That you really are a lonely, desperate asshole,” I say, and I flick open my knife to show him the blade. “It’s not a Buck knife, mind you, but it's sharp as hell and size isn't everything. It'll get the job done, believe you me.”

He scoffs and pulls out his leather-sheathed knife, wagging it in front of my face before tossing it into the cardboard box at my feet. “I call you cute and you call me desperate. You’re lucky I still find you interesting, son.” I'm snickering under my breath when he snatches my knife from my hand and closes it against his knee, flinging it into my lap. "No open knives in the truck, dumbass – not while we're moving," he says with a wink. "Now hand me that map."

I pull the map off the dash, flick it onto his lap, and wink back, making the bastard smile and click his tongue as he briefly checks the route. I don't know why, but today is starting to feel like a very good day. I'm not _trapped_ between cemeteries and slaughterhouses; I'm _willingly_ making that long haul between them like it's just the right thing to do. As I lean back, relaxing into my new role as navigator of this sinking ship, another sign for Wichita Falls races past my window, and I'm left wondering if this ship's actually sinking into absurdity, or if the world's just decided to take one last deep breath, before it succumbs to the madness and collapses right out from under us. 


	24. A Little Man Stands in the Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gifted to [flatfootmonster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Flatfootmonster/pseuds/Flatfootmonster).

I used to like order. I’d always insist on having my ducks in a row before I did anything of any importance. But do you know what happens when you spend all your time carefully setting up ducks? One day you die, and all you have to show for your life is a nice straight line of stupid ducks.

My ducks are scrambling, and I’m left shooing them away, unsure of how much I even like order anymore. It’s more satisfying to watch the dominoes fall than to set them up, because chaos is attention-grabbing. It’s exciting. It gets the blood pumping.

You know what I hate, though? Waiting. Everyone hates waiting because it feels like a waste of everything. No ducks are being set up; no dominoes are falling. Waiting feels akin to serving a sentence in purgatory – limbo – Siberia – an endless corrosion of time and energy, and if you ever leave that prison, part of your soul is lost in the process.

We had to wait until nightfall before Butch would even crack the truck door. We’d parked along the shoulder of a small road cutting through a valley in southern Colorado. A vast expanse of darkened forest was spread in front of us, painting the mountainsides with a deep hunter green. How Butch knew to park here, I have no idea. There were no road signs or guard rails, and we hadn’t seen another vehicle in hours.

As soon as we parked, Butch leaned back, nodded to me, and passed out while we waited for the sun to finish setting. Apparently, the man we’re about to meet doesn’t appreciate visitors during the day, which just adds another layer of bewildering mystery to him.

While Butcher sleeps off his exhaustion from only getting cat naps between Wichita Falls and our destination, I’m wasting away, reading and staring at his relaxed eyes and jaw. Like his sleeping face, everything the man does looks so natural and unencumbered. Unlike myself, decisions come easily to him – just a simple yes, no, or nod in a particular direction. He’s sharp and quick-witted, easily talking his way out of speeding tickets and any line of questioning involving myself. I, on the other hand, can’t talk my way out of a wet paper bag, and even if I could, it would take me days. If we ever get stopped, I’m suddenly his childhood friend, a lost hitchhiker, or we’re on our way to pick up my truck. My story changes at his whim, and he somehow keeps it all straight; I sure as hell can’t.

When we stop to refuel or are seated in a diner, and someone asks where we’re going, he tells them Vegas, Phoenix, or Albuquerque. He shoots the shit with cops and not a single person has asked what the hell he’s doing with a pile of unprocessed logs in a region of the US with no expansive forests or lumber mills. People just trust him, which is a concept I cannot wrap my head around. I didn’t trust the bastard from day one. The guy looked like a snake to me, and his voice made him sound like a Bond villain or some rogue agent in a shitty cop drama. Of course, your first impression of a person is moot when they catch you dragging a body into the woods. I guess I did trust him at that point, but only because I needed him to save my ass and I had no other choice.

The drive from Louisiana had been as pleasant as one could expect considering the morbid circumstances. We stopped for food, and Butcher attempted to ease my pain-ravaged mind with genial conversations and anecdotes. Over lunch, he shared a bit about his parents – a wealthy couple with a decent surname, though he never told me what it was – and I found out that he had a little sister. I never had siblings, but I wonder if growing up with one wouldn’t have changed the course of my life entirely. There’s a camaraderie between siblings that you probably can’t get from anyone else. Butcher’s sister sounded like a sweet little girl, the kind of kid that steals all the attention with her warm smile, funny jokes, and unrelenting charm, but apparently she didn’t survive the war – a fact that brought such a rush of pain to our table, that I had to get up and use the bathroom just so I didn’t have to look into his eyes. By the time I came back, he’d already paid, and we haven’t spoken of her since.

It wasn’t until we started talking about our pasts that I realized how much it affected me knowing my father was still alive in Louisiana. Since laying my last familial tie to rest, I no longer feel that clawing guilt over his unending suffering. I do feel adrift, though, both my buoy and my net having been severed; but I can’t feel any more adrift than Butcher must, also having no living family, and now surviving alone on the other side of the world.

While reading in the truck I must have nodded off, because I jolt awake when Butcher flicks on his dome light and I catch him sliding a gun down the back of his jeans. Where the hell did he get a gun? How is everyone hiding these goddamn pistols right under my nose?

I sit up when he pushes my feet aside to fish his knife out of my box. Watching him hastily arm himself has me nervously clearing my throat, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m not a thief,” he explains, but I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, so he continues, “I am, however, opportunistic. Yes, it’s your father’s gun.”

So he _is_ a thief – dirty liar. But, honestly, why am I not surprised? “I don’t give a rat’s ass about the gun. I just want to know why we need an arsenal to pick up your _order.”_

“He’s eccentric,” he says, but I already knew that. “He likes familiarity. He’ll take issue with me bringing someone new. I’ll vouch for you, but you’ll have to do exactly what I tell you – no arguments.”

This is completely easing my nerves – no worries at all. “Butch, what the hell are you talking about?”

He stops me with a raised hand and shakes his head. “You can’t call me Butcher. In fact, don’t speak at all. If you refer to me as anything, he calls me Nigel.”

What the hell kind of name is that? Are we sharing personal shit now? I’m not willing to travel down that _I’ll show you mine, you show me yours_ path right now. I’m just starting to like our nicknames; I feel safer with the anonymity. “Is that your name then, Butch? Nigel?”

“It’s the name he picked, four years ago. I didn’t question it then, and you will not question it now,” he orders. Seems a little suspect, but this is my first dealing with an underground meat man, so I guess I’ll have to submit to the professionals on the matter.

While we’ve been talking, he’s donned a new shirt – a deep red button up identical to the gray shirt I inadvertently stole weeks ago. He reaches back and lifts the sleeper mattress, pulling his axe out of the compartment, and I eye the freshly sharpened blade. “You’re making him sound incredibly dangerous.”

“That’s a fair assessment.” He leans down to pull an odd leather belt from under his seat. He lays the axe against it and snaps a strap over the head and the handle. Then he throws the sling across his back like a quiver, making him look like the psychopathic love child of Robin Hood and Paul Bunyan. “The man’s flighty and sets traps, so you step where I step, and you don’t stray.”

So, is the axe a meat cleaver then, or are we planning to hack our way up the mountain? Either way, this is rapidly developing into a situation I don't want any part of. I’m a terrible shot, and my switchblade is neither a six-inch Buck knife nor a sharpened axe. “Maybe I should stay in the truck.”

Naturally, he dismisses my sanity, opting to follow his own negligent logic instead. “No. You need to meet him. It’ll make everything easier if he speaks to you. He’ll trust you.”

 _“I_ don’t trust me, Butch,” I snap, and he glares at me because I screwed up his name. “ _Nigel_ … and I don’t trust you, either. This is a terrible idea.”

“You’ll do fine,” he says, grabbing two flashlights from the dash. He yanks open his door and drops out of the cab into the abyss surrounding the truck.

Mr. Confidence I am not. I understand that Nigel relies on luck, but this is beyond the scope of just luck. This is asinine and risky, and I don’t have the brashness that he has to just storm this guy’s cannibal castle, guns a’blazing.

I hear a sharp rap on my window, followed by a muffled order to get out of the truck.

I don’t want to, though: my pulse is racing, and I feel sick. I need an excuse to stay in the relative safety of _this_ cannibal’s hideout. Settling on one, I pull my gun from the glovebox and tap it against the window. “No bullets,” I shout.

“Bring it anyway,” says the muffled voice. “Everything’ll be fine, Hop. Trust me.”

Trust him. That’s remarkably easy for him to say when he's well-armed and fully aware of what lies on that mountainside. But now I'm trapped. I want to trust him, I do, and since he has yet to steer me wrong, I pop open my door and drop out to find Nigel waiting for me at the darkened tree line, holding out the handle of a lit flashlight which I reluctantly snatch from his hand.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark,” he snickers.

“I have an unloaded gun and a three-inch knife on my person, and I’m about to be accosted by a cannibal butcher. It’s not the darkness that I’m worried about.”

He pulls out my father’s gun and dangles it in front of my face like an asshole. “Do you want the pistol? It’s an heirloom now. Seems deadly enough at point blank.”

“Keep it,” I snarl.

He snickers and slips the gun back under his belt, and then draws the axe sling over his head, dropping the heavy strap across my left shoulder as an alternative.

“Maybe you’re an _axe_ man,” he chuckles. He tugs my bandaged right hand behind my hip to finger a small snap that covers the axe head, which he unfastens with my thumb. “Unhook the head first,” he says, and then my arm’s hoisted over my left shoulder to touch the soft leather strap that holds the axe handle against my back. “Undo the haft and pull.”

The strap unsnaps, letting the handle fall into my palm, and I unholster it, bringing the weapon between our chests. While I’m looking at the two-and-a-half-foot axe with my flashlight, Nigel slides my grip up the wooden handle.

“Choke up a little after you draw it, and be mindful that it doesn’t get lodged in your calf when you swing. The bit’s not the only dangerous part, either; it’s sharp, but watch that it doesn’t rebound and crack your front teeth. I like that pretty little mouth of yours just the way it is.”

I nod and ignore the commentary as I palm the axe. It’s heavier than I was expecting. I’ve never used anything larger than a hatchet.

When he’s sufficiently satisfied with whatever he’s expecting me to do with it, I drop the axe in his waiting hand. He wrenches me around and straps it back in the sling, patting my shoulder when he’s done like I’m a goddamn horse.

Then he leans against my back, yanking me and the axe into his chest, his lips hovering just over my ear. “She’s my true love, Axeman. I shaped her ash handle myself. You will treat her like a lady. And if you lose her, I’ll take a bite right out of your ass.”

I sneer over my shoulder. “That a promise?”

At least he laughs and doesn’t bite me right here and now. The asshole’s more unpredictable than I am.

“Feel better equipped?” he asks.

“Not in the least.”

“Good enough for me.” He claps my back again, and off we trudge into wooded oblivion.

I miss the security found within the daylight and the meager glow of the truck. All we have to find our way up the mountain are the two yellow beams from our flashlights and what’s left of the moonlight being diffused through wispy clouds.

A thin fog is weaving through the trees, and I can’t understand how Nigel’s feet aren’t getting tangled in vines like mine are. He’s not even scanning the forest floor for hazards.  I keep stumbling and snagging my jeans on thorny bushes covered in little red berries; they keep catching my attention like beady little eyes when my light swings over the ground. Nigel’s beam, however, remains high, scanning tree trunks about twenty feet off the ground. When he locates a small yellow triangle, he stops short and I collide with his back.

His scoff doesn’t hide his amusement with my bumbling ass. “Now, you step where I step, Axe, you understand me?”

I grumble in reply, but he accepts my nervous confirmation, and we slowly begin our ascent.

The forest is dark and quiet – nothing but snapping twigs underfoot and rustling leaves overhead. The topography of this terrain and the location of our intended target are nothing but a mystery to me, and I’m growing more and more tense with each uncertain step. I could be walking into a trap – a man-eating lion’s den. What if the last two weeks were nothing but a ploy on Nigel’s part to march a willing piece of meat up this foggy path to its doom? What if I was being groomed to fatten myself on man flesh – to marble my own meat for the inevitable roast at the precipice of this very mountain? The air suddenly feels hot to me, suffocating and thick, but as my skin beads with sweat and the breeze picks up, I’m chilled to the bone again.

Why am I still following him? _Colorado guy_ is probably just a ruse to get me into his slaughterhouse.

A low growl rumbles to my left, and I swing my light, briefly catching a pair of glowing eyes that dart away. What the hell is lurking in these woods? What the hell kind of creatures are prowling and following us up this godforsaken path?

My heart races, but I’m not terrified for myself. Garm wasn’t in the sleeper when I awoke to Nigel arming himself. If she’s out in these booby-trapped woods, she could be killed.

Nigel’s already meandering deeper into the forest when I scan the trees again. The eyes are gone, replaced with jutting rocks and a carpet of dead needles and leaves. There’s no movement except the occasional sway of thorny bushes as the breeze blows down the nearly invisible path.

“Garm,” I whisper, my voice shaking through the mist.

Nothing replies.

I scan the ground for lines, tripwires, netting or nooses, but find nothing, so I step between the trees. “Garm!” I whisper again.

A branch snaps and I stop.

The rustling leaves grow louder as they sway, dampening all other noises. I step farther off the path, my light searching for the dog, but she’s gone. There are no paw prints, no jingling collar, no sign of any creature in the underbrush.

I’m about to give up and return to the path when I hear a twig crack behind me and I turn, expecting Nigel’s temper to be flaring at my flagrant disobedience.

But it’s not Nigel behind me.

It’s not Garm.

What’s standing between me and the relative safety of the man now climbing the mountain alone is a figure. It’s obscured by the darkness and unmoving – a figure shaped like the shadow of a man.

Chills chase up my spine as a low, reverberating growl drifts from the being. I stumble back and reach for my knife, drawing it as my flashlight glances off its face – black hair, red skin, wet eyes.

My shirt sticks to my back and sweat drips down my sides. I stop moving and hold my breath. It does nothing, and I sense it beginning to back away – until my knife handle glints in the moonlight.

Its heavy breath shudders at my potential hostility – thick huffs like it’s a bull about to charge. I shouldn’t have drawn a weapon. I should have stayed in the truck. I should not be out here alone. I should have listened to Nigel. But I didn’t, and now I’m staring at a beast whose glassy eyes are locked on mine, waiting for me to give it a reason to attack.

And then I feel it – the tiny metal switch on my knife handle. My thumb gently circles it, but I want to pull it back. I want to pocket my knife. I want to slowly raise my hands, but I don’t. Instead, my thumb stops and I squeeze the handle, the blade sharply snapping open, and another poor choice has been made.  

The beast lunges and I spin around, bolting over rocks and scrambling through the greenbriar.

Feet pound the ground behind me as I weave. It’s gaining on me, and I need to find the truck, but I’m turned around and can’t see. Gravity throws me down the side of the mountain as I skid through mud, narrowly missing trees. I’m not fast enough, and when I glance over my shoulder, my light catches a bloody chest moments before I’m tackled to the rocks.

My sweaty palm is wrenched open, my knife ripped from my fingers. A stinging burn slashes across my cheek and I grab its arm, twisting it away and throwing my body against his. We roll and slide down the muddy mountainside, and my knife is lost to the forest.

He’s clawing at my face and hair like a rabid animal, and his skin is wet and slick. We skid to a stop and his foot catches me in the gut as I’m hurled off his body.

I roll across the dirt and start scrambling away, but I’m yanked back, my throat is crushed by a thick strap. He has the axe sling twisted around my neck, and his knee is buried in my back. He’s growling words I can’t decipher through the pounding in my ears, and I claw at the strap that’s suffocating me; I can’t hear – I can’t think – I can’t breathe.

When I feel his hot breath on my cheek, I throw back my head and crack him in the nose. He stumbles back and I rip the sling over my head and drop it, charging toward an opening in the trees.

All I focus on is the barely visible sky as I skid over rocks and tumble downhill. When I burst into a small clearing, I dive behind a fallen log, burrowing as far under it as I can, and I wait.

What the fuck was that?! Bloody faces and wild eyes flash through my head. My arms and legs have been pummeled by the rocks, and are covered in cuts and bruises. Blood pours from my face, and I press my shaking hand against my cheek, the gauze wrapped around my palm saturating with blood.

Sharp stones and twigs rattle and snap as I shake, and I hold my heaving breath, trying not to make a sound. Other than my own throbbing pulse, I hear nothing above or behind me. From the corner of my eye, I see a beam of light shining at the base of a tree, and my heart stops. Is it Nigel? The beast? Some other creature prowling these woods?

No. The unmoving light is the flashlight I dropped when I hid. It could draw the beast straight to me, so I scramble out, swipe it into my chest, and clamber back into my hole.

The world is so much more terrifying in pitch blackness. Maybe I _am_ scared of the dark, especially when it’s this murky and damp. This is the place where monsters lurk – wolf men howl to blood moons here; perverted muggers lure you into the debauched darkness; shadows wait to attack the vulnerable; and crazy fucking lunatics stab you in the goddamn face.

A torrent of pain floods my cheeks when I think about the gash under my palm. I don’t dare move my hand for fear that I’ll bleed out right here under this pulpy log. When I try to swallow back the lump in my burning throat, I can’t – I’m forced to drool bloody spit into a pool under my face.

This is why I run. This is why I hide. I am haunted by these devils in red cloaks. They chase me from the light. They corner me. They lock me away and watch me flounder as I struggle to survive. Time unfolds so slowly when I hide. How many hours have passed since I buried myself here? It’s been days, week, years, with no sign of life except for the hungry bats still stalking mosquitos in the branches over my head.

I count each breath until I get to three hundred – four hundred – five – and I finally stop and listen for the sounds of wild beasts or savage men, devils waiting in the wings; but I hear no thumping boots, no scraping claws, or howling from the obscurity surrounding me.

The creature must have found more enticing prey elsewhere, but it will double back for me eventually. It knows I'm wounded so I have to move. I crawl from under the log and peer back toward where I think I came from. Nothing followed me, but I also see no path. I’m now lost in these unfamiliar woods, a madman lurking somewhere, and potential traps hidden in plain sight – that is, if I could see anything.  

Far up the hill, I do spot something – a light peeking from between the trees; it’s Nigel’s flashlight. With adrenaline still coursing through my body, I can make it up there in a matter of minutes. I hold my breath, clutch my cheek, and take a tentative step – but I stop.

I lost the axe; I lost the sling too. I did exactly what he told me not to do: I strayed from the path, and in the process, I lost his true love. I don’t know Nigel any better than I know a stranger, but he entrusted me with someone of great value to him, and I, like an irresponsible jackass, let it fall from my hand like trash, and that is unacceptable. He will destroy me if I don’t find it.

I click on my light and scan the ground, working my way back through the fog. I keep that glowing light up the mountain on my left side as I wander, stopping every few seconds to listen for footsteps or growling.

Miraculously, I find the sling – bloodied from my sliced cheek, but in one piece. The axe, however, is gone, as is my knife, and with the unloaded gun at my back, I’m weaponless and now hopelessly lost until dawn.

With no alternative left, I don the empty sling, click off my light, and creep silently through the woods toward the floating yellow globe up the hill. Weaving through trees, I finally step into a rocky clearing, immediately crouching to the ground. The light isn’t a flashlight; it’s a window. A small, log hunting cabin is tucked up here at the edge of a gully. I smell a cool, earthy mix of ozone and mud: the walls of the gully must embank a river. As I focus and clear my head, I can hear it coursing down the mountain.

If this was the proposed target, Butch has to be in there by now. I could wait out here until he emerges, but that leaves me vulnerable to whatever brute attacked me. Was it the lunatic we intended to meet? Was the creature a prisoner here? Or was he just an unlucky camper sporting a fresh raccoon bite?

The house is quiet, so I take my chances and scurry across the yard. Halfway to the house, my boot cracks into something metallic, and a _snap!_ echoes through the forest as I’m thrown to the ground. I scan the trees, hoping to God the noise didn’t draw anything out of the woods. When nothing attacks, I take a moment to calm my nerves, but a dull ache in my ankle builds and crests, and I hiss in pain. I set something off and now I can’t move my leg. I turn on my light and point it at my feet.

The heel of my boot is wedged between the iron teeth of a goddamn bear trap. My ankle’s twisted, but no skin seems broken. I have to get out of the middle of the yard, though – I start to crawl toward the house when the anchored chain tightens, cutting short my escape. I could’ve lost my whole goddamn foot, and now I’m tethered to the ground.

I fish through my pocket, but I lost my fucking knife. Instead, I work my trembling fingers under the laces, yanking them open, and pull my foot out before scrambling toward the cabin.

I wasn’t given instructions on what to do in this scenario. Hindsight, I should’ve followed closer to Nigel. I regret my decision to step away, but I can’t worry about that now. That crazy psycho is still out here and I need to decide: do I enter this potential trap to look for Nigel, or take my chances with the bloody bastard still skulking in the woods?

The cabin is far more inviting than a fog-obscured forest, so I hobble around the house and crawl across the small porch to the wooden front door. It's been left cracked open which is never a good sign. Is something about to rush out, or has something godawful already escaped? When I stand, I come face to face with a warning posted on the door: _Trespassers will be shot on sight_  – a comforting thought. I hope to God he’s a merciful crackshot.

I can’t stay out here with the madman, and the house seems empty, so I throw caution to the wind and grip the brass knob, slowly drawing open the door.  

A trail of mud and leaves covers the floor of the tiny entryway, which leads through a second doorway and into the glowing room I’d followed up the mountain. I limp into the room, lit by a blazing fireplace, but stop before my remaining mud-caked boot can draw any attention.

A man on a stool faces the fire at the far end of the room. He has dark, cropped hair and the makings of a scruffy black beard. He’s barefoot and shirtless, blood and dirt streaked across his body. He hunches over something in his lap, and I can hear a heavy metallic scrape every few seconds as his shoulder wrenches toward the ground. Then I see the smooth ash handle. He’s honing Nigel’s true love.

He doesn’t hear me, and he hasn’t turned, so I crouch and untie the laces of my other boot, slipping it off to muffle my footsteps.

A small wooden table and two chairs have been shoved against the wall opposite me and a ratty rug lines the floor. The log walls are covered in poorly-skinned and mounted animals. Bear heads with no glass eyes or proper sculpting yawn in pain. A row of mallards with broken feathers and missing bills cast long, twisted shadows across the walls. In the corner lies a pile of rabbit skins – some still bloody, some just a rotting clump of fur.

Along the front wall, and under a window half obscured by the log pile on the porch, is a low cabinet, its top lined with dull blades. I scoop up a knife as I creep toward him, palming it in my sweaty hand. He’s mumbling some low chaotic murmur of twisted syllables. I’m only an arm’s length away when he then stops honing the axe and falls silent.

His eyes tip up to stare into the fire as he waits. It’s too late to run now: he heard me.

We both freeze, my pulse pounding in my ears as his head barely tilts.

He twists around, throwing a punch, but I lunge at his back and my arm hooks his neck, hauling him off the stool. The bastard bites my arm and snarls like an ugly dog, clawing at the knife and trying to stab my face again. I yank the blade from his fingers and gouge it deep into his lower back as he flails. His shriek echoes through the room until I tighten my arm around his neck and stifle the racket. He tears and bites at my arm, but his pawing hands weaken as he loses consciousness, and he and I both drop to the floor.

Why the hell do I keep battling these cretins with no help from Nigel? He’s probably halfway up the fucking mountain by now, or back sitting in the goddamn truck with Garm.

I catch my breath and stare at the madman’s body, crumpled on the floor in front of the fire. The knife is sticking out of his kidney like a damn birthday candle. He’s bleeding out and I have to get the hell out of this rat’s nest. I creep around the body and pull the bloody sling over my head; I can’t leave without the axe, so I holster it, throw it back over my shoulder, and stumble out the door.

I practically fall from the porch step, clutching my boot and my bleeding face, and I notice a path into the woods. It could be the path that leads to the truck; but when I stop briefly to reassess my options, my gun is yanked from my jeans and held to the back of my head.

“Who the fuck are _you?!”_ howls a deep, raspy voice. I guess he wasn’t dead yet.

I raise my hands and attempt to steady my voice. “I’m with Nigel. He’ll vouch for me.”

“The _fuck_ he will!” he coughs.

I know the gun’s unloaded, and there’s no way in hell he can’t feel how light it is. He’s tapping the muzzle against the back of my head when a body dives out from the woods and the gun rips away.

Nigel braces his forearm against the guy’s chest, pinning him to the dirt. “You need to calm down,” he orders; but the guy has no interest in listening.

When Nigel draws the pistol from his back and presses it to the guy’s forehead, the thrashing finally stops.

They just hold that position, huffing against each other’s faces with my father’s gun indenting the guy’s head, until Nigel slowly slides his knees off his legs.

“Stay on the ground,” he hisses, and when the man seems complacent, though clearly pissed, Nigel rolls off him and stands, letting the gun hang at his side. The guy coughs and hisses but stays on his back like a good dog.

“You don’t pull this shit in my house – not on my land,” he snaps. “We had a deal.”

Nigel dismissively holds up his hand and shakes his head. I’m surprised this bastard’s temper and lip hasn’t won him a bullet in the leg by now. “Introductions first,” he says, pointing to me. “This is Axeman.”

The guy’s not interested in knowing anything about me and lays there grumbling, his face reddening and his lip curling into an indignant sneer. Nigel shakes his head at the bastard and scoffs, his eyes finally flicking up to meet mine. The color drains from his face and he begins to speak, but the guy on the ground snarls and spits on my jeans.

“Fuck your Axeman,” he snaps. “He’s as good as dead now.”

That was an incredibly rude thing to say. He doesn’t know me. I’ve done nothing to him that wasn’t justified. My eyes drift down his filthy, mud- and blood-soaked body. He’s a goddamn pig that should feel lucky he’s escaped the slaughterhouse.

Staring at the piece of shit has my blood boiling through my veins, pounding in my head. Then I hear two faint clicks like something popping behind me.

Just twice. Just two almost inaudible snaps.

_Click._

_Click._

Is it a hammer clicking? It can’t be. My gun’s been thrown to the ground by the porch.

Is it a lumbering animal, crashing through the underbrush? No, the woods are as silent as the night sky.

My hand feels heavy and overworked now, like I’m hauling a heavy bucket over my head. My shoulder strains under the weight, and then a voice in my mind orders me to _choke up,_ and I do. Everything immediately feels easier – more balanced, more freeing. The world is in order, aligning itself for this moment in time – little ducks, all in a row.

A voice outside my mind briefly pleads for me to stop, but I have no time for that voice, not now – not in this place where the world and the stars have aligned. I’ve already decided my fate, and I’ve already choked up; why would I stop now when I can bring balance to the world?

It’s taking an eye for an eye.

It’s that infamous retributive justice I keep hearing so much about.

A better man would have at least learned the monster’s name. A better man would have heard that name and seen humanity in the beast’s eyes. He would have realized that this creature was one of God’s many gifts – a little man in the woods wearing a crimson cloak with a patch of black hair on his head. But I am not a better man. I am a man who sees both the forest and the trees. I am a man who knows that felling a few dead ones keeps the earth nice and healthy for the rest. In a smooth, unencumbered motion, like I’m drawing a rainbow just over my head, my arm curves up and back down, landing its mark, right on that soft, delicate throat that couldn’t seem to catch its breath.

Another fine, deep red wine empties onto the earth, soaking and seeping into its damp, thirsty tongue. It’s a tasty vintage that feels far more satisfying to my palate than the last, and I smile down at the man who’s bubbling and writhing, but silent now – no more threats escaping those savage, pallid lips.

The warm spray across my face slowly drips those pretty pennies across my lips again, and a fleeting recollection from weeks ago makes my eyes drift up the body of the man now ogling me. With fresh copper dancing on my tongue, I wonder if this blood-thirsty cannibal wants to kiss me again. Even if I had my knife, I don’t think I’d pull it on him now. He can have me.

My partner seems perturbed, however; much more so than I would’ve expected – much more so than after I brought light to my foul-mouthed shadow. I thought he liked this. I thought this made him _proud._

“He won’t attack again,” I hear myself mumble, blinking through the thick, wet fog enveloping us. “And I didn’t catch his name.”

“Learning his name now would be pointless,” he huffs, and I have to agree. He was a nameless animal locked in a cage – a creature trapped in his own darkness. I would have helped him bandage his bloody wounds or pick his rusty lock. We could have talked like men, shared our names, and behaved like civilized people. But that bastard bit me, so I had to put him down.

A burning sting races across my face, and an ache worms up my leg, reminding me just how bad this last hour on God’s earth has been. My knees buckle and I fall onto them, gasping when I realize I’ve been holding my breath. My ears hum and the world is a blinding white. Am I falling back down the mountain, or am I racing toward the heavens?

It doesn’t take as long to plunge back into my body this time, and when I can hear my own breath heaving from my mouth, I feel two hands gripping either side of my bruised neck. His face comes into focus just as the ringing fades.

He’s studying my twitching pupils, his own eyes engulfed in impassioned flames that lap at the edges of his blood-filled wells. What is this fervid look staring back at me? Is it unrelenting rage, or a new form of bitter disgust toward my hasty and reckless decision?

Though unwelcoming, I want to crawl into his eyes anyway. I want to dive to the bottom of those filling pools and wait there as I heal, swimming and biding my time until I’ve formulated an answer as to why I didn’t listen to him in the first place. Why didn’t I stay on the path with him? Why did I wander this snare-filled forest on my own? Why didn’t I stop even when I heard him beg me to? If I had to wager a guess – and I am not a betting man – I’d say that blinding heat emanating from Nigel’s eyes might just be the look of a man about to bury his freshly-honed true love right in my back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 24 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-24-a-little-man-stands-in-the-forest/).


	25. Coming Clean

I look up at the night sky here, and an infinite expanse of stars stretches above me. Orion hunts there above the trees, and near it, Jupiter. I peer into that flickering void, wondering who – on another celestial body, billions of lightyears away – might be staring back at me, in just as precarious a predicament as I currently find myself. I know our stars aren’t the same, but I wonder if their life is as gray as mine, or if it’s some other equally dubious hue on a spectrum the human eye has yet to observe.

If you think long and hard about the origin of humanity you'll find our history laughable. One day a random, glowing ball of gas collected space dust, which turned into space rock, which then miraculously gathered space water, and through the powers that be somehow gave birth to all life as we know it. Swans, blue whales, fire ants, and typhoid – they’ve all been molded from the same dusty clay as ourselves. Through evolution, that clay turned into man, and man turned into noble kings and brave knights, cannibal surgeons, unpredictable English teachers, and Colorado savages – the veritable spices of life.

I’m desperately clinging to this muddy rock while being hurtled through the depths of space, as though I have somewhere important to go. I’m not alone, however. I survive in this inconsequential realm by relying on a finely knit web of other seemingly random and useless clusters of life: bacteria fill my gut, plants feed my dinner, beasts of burden cover my back and feet, and then, of course, there's my fellow man – another beast of incredible burden also clinging to my back. If you were to sever a microscopic string of this web – perhaps my life – who would feel that tug and come a’runnin? Would anyone notice my absence, or would the web simply mend itself in time – the weaver, none the wiser?

The rock I cling to would keep flying whether my string was severed or not. My life has no bearing on the orbit of Mars, Mercury, Earth, or Titan. My death will not cause the sun to grieve. My choices today can’t possibly affect the next turn of the century. We are all insignificant – Vonnegut tells us that – and yet for some reason, we pretend to think otherwise. I guess it makes our futile lives a little easier to bear.

After a long while of silently staring at the cosmos while Nigel paces the darkened porch, I finally stand, grab the stained axe from where I dropped it by the body, and hobble toward the cabin. I’m still blood-soaked – only some of it mine – and the weight of my mind-numbing exhaustion is pressing me further into the earth.

I made a hasty decision in a blinding fog, but I will face Nigel and the fallout like a man. I’m not a coward anymore.

“That may have been impulsive,” I admit, clearing my gravelly voice. But in all honesty, no one else knows about this now-headless lunatic. He lived on this mountainside alone, according to Nigel, hunting for sport and so damn lonely up here that he probably spent his nights self-fellating himself. He was  _one_ man, and barely a man at that. He was a feral psychopath with a destructive hobby, a volatile temper, and he tried to kill me. That’s got to count for something in this unfortunate situation. “I’ll figure out how to fix this,” I say. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it seems.”

Nigel stops and turns toward me, his eyes lost within a frantic thought. Sweat beads at his temples and his head shakes like I don’t know what I’m talking about. He looks scared, or awe-struck – an agitated emotion that I’ve never seen expressed by this seemingly unflappable man. What just happened is somehow incomprehensible to him. His reaction is so shocking to me that I take a limping step back, somewhat afraid that the bastard’s going to kill me, or possibly start crying in a panic, and I’m not sure which scenario would be worse.

His eyes immediately soften as I stumble away from him, and his hand rises, quickly beckoning me back to the porch as if the forest will consume me if I take another step. He looks delirious, and his breath rattles in his chest. I’ve watched him gut a man, evade prison, dodge probing police, and what he did to the shadow after its death must have been gruesome. How could the demise of this insignificant peon possibly bother him – unless there was more to their relationship than he’s letting on. Damn liar.

I do as requested, though I’m not sure why. He meets me halfway and wraps his arms around my back, burying his face in my neck like we’ve just been reunited after years of solitude. I’ve not known him that long, but I know what a terrified man looks and feels like. I’ve been one my entire life; and he’s shaking, for God’s sake.

“What did I do?” I breathe into his shoulder. “How bad is this?”

“This doesn’t matter. I’ll fix it,” he whispers, stroking the back of my head. What needs fixing? The man is dead. If what I did is mendable in some way, what’s he so afraid of?

As he holds me, the ticking in his head speeds up and he suddenly pulls away to peer at my face, brushing the bloody hair off my forehead. I must look like I’ve been mauled by a wolf: his hand nervously hovers over my cheek, unwilling to touch it lest he tears it further open.

“Where else are you hurt?” He scans and pats down my body like he's searching for a weapon. “Where are your boots?”

“There’s a bear trap near the window. I rolled my ankle when I set it off.” He drops to his knees as I speak, carefully peeling up the leg of my pants, and his fingers squeeze the back of my calf as he inspects the damage. My ankle’s black and swollen, but not broken. What Nigel expects to do is beyond me.

He stands again and rubs his cheek before pointing to the body. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No shit.”

“It's not right. I should’ve stopped this.” He's not actually talking to me. He's mumbling to himself, trying to convince the world that he's right, and reality is wrong. I wish him luck in the endeavor. Then he points accusingly at me. “You warned me when you said you wanted to stay in the truck. You said you’d be accosted by a cannibal butcher.” 

I wasn’t warning him. I didn’t know the man was psychotic, and it’s not like I was predicting anything. God, I hope he’s not as superstitious as my old man. “That was _mostly_ a joke, Nigel. And _you_ accost me all the time. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying this wasn’t supposed to happen. I told you to stay on the goddamn path,” he says, and his gaze snaps back to the body while he thinks.

“I know what you said, and I should have listened. I take full responsibility for all this. I just don’t see what the problem is.”

“What happened to your throat?”

“He choked me with the sling.”

He shakes his head like this is all impossible, but I have the dripping face and bitched up leg to prove it’s not.

“Go inside and sit. I’ll follow in a minute.” He pulls the axe from my hand and charges off the porch like he has a magical plan after all.

While he heads for the body, I limp back into the cabin’s trophy room – or whatever you would call this nightmarish display of gutted beasts. Though the thin, warmer air inside the cabin is welcoming, the harsh shadows cast by horns and wings seem to haunt the walls, making the cozy, little cottage more reminiscent of a haunted fun house. Through the window, Nigel appears to have calmed, a plume of smoke following him as he drags the body into the darkness at the side of the cabin. Moments later he returns to retrieve the head and toss it to the same fate.

Nigel has been an anchor in the chaotic storm swirling around us both for weeks, and seeing him flustered feels like I'm witnessing the first sign of the apocalypse – his reality is somehow being led astray. The man has always been quick on his feet. No matter the type of chaos, he’s had a plan ready to execute – from Boulder, to Mississippi, to my father’s house. This can’t be any different. He just needs time and space to think, and I understand that more than anyone, so I ignore him for now and turn my attention to the fire. Nigel instructed me to sit, so I right the upturned stool and do just that as I try to come to grips with what I did to that monster out front.

I just killed another person, and I realize that I don’t give a rat's ass this time. My actions felt necessary, like that creature outside wasn’t supposed to live. He was an unnatural being – a man living like a caged animal up here, alone and stir crazy.

In front of me, the whetstone lies cracked on the floor, having smashed against the stone hearth when I yanked the beast off the stool. It broke into three perfect triangles: beautiful, symmetrical, but completely useless now. With a single jerk of my arm, I destroyed a stone that had probably sharpened thousands of blades and now will never hone another. Destruction is easy to partake in – your actions can be quick and thoughtless. But it’s not as easy to recover from chaos. It takes patience, clear thinking, and a sense of right and wrong to fix your mistakes, if you care to fix them at all. I could replace the whetstone, or never again sharpen a dull knife, or I could just stop destroying shit – there’s a thought.

I stare into the lapping flames, wondering where I am in all this crackling discord. We don’t all live in a world full of teeth and knives and pain. Some people happily grill steaks cut from a cow, not a man. They own yachts. They have bowling teams and paint model trains. They fuck their wives, then go to work and return home hungry and pissed, expecting their kids to shut up and do as they’re told. This is what makes a normal, rational man in _that_ world.

Here, men are beasts spitting on and brutally attacking each other, or spouting off philosophies about cruelty being a gift we’ve given ourselves. We bask in death and destruction here. We aren’t just made of clay, we’re made of blood and guts and smoke, filthy animals on the brink of, or submerged in, madness.

But I suppose that makes us more like God than I had previously assumed. God’s hands are no cleaner than Nigel’s. His conscience should feel just as taxed as my own. His brutality and isolation mirror the headless cretin who’s currently being dragged to the edge of a raging river. And if that’s the case, why the hell should I feel guilty about any of this? I’m just a man made in God’s own image.

Thumping boots draw me from my fireside heresy to watch Nigel, regrouped and stoic again, rolling his shoulders as he stares at the ceiling of the cabin.

“I’m sorry, Nige. I should have listened –”

“Stop calling me that. Pick something else – and not Butcher; I didn’t like that one either.”

Across from the front door hangs a dirty curtain spanning another doorway leading into the rest of the cabin. Nigel storms into that hidden room, and I hear drawers opening and slamming shut. Metallic objects clank and scrape. Rusty hinges creak as doors are ripped open. A flick and whoosh of a match, and the cabin falls silent until a faint glow flickers from under the curtain and his boots thump into another back room.

Whatever his plan is, it seems to be in full swing, so I focus on my assigned task and pick a new name. I’ve never just picked a new name for him: it’s always been relevant to whatever situation we’ve gotten ourselves into. He seems irked by everything, so I could call him Angry Man, or go back to Cold Eggs – Eggs was fairly short-tempered if I remember correctly.

He huffs out of the back room with two lit kerosene lanterns, dropping one on the floor by the curtain as he passes. The other dangles from his fist, and he barges onto the front porch, letting the wooden door slam behind him.

Someone's clearly pissed, but he has no one to blame for this mess, but himself. I sure as hell didn’t want to lay siege to this shanty, and I told him that days ago.

This place has no electricity. It looks like an old hunting cabin, stocked with only the basics for the few months of a year a man and his son would live here. In the corner closest to me, is a wadded up bedroll and a pile of quilts. Just how much discipline did Nigel have to lay down to get that dirty psycho to follow even basic instructions? It boggles the mind.

Nige returns with an armload of split wood and a bucket of water. “I'll get this boiling, then I’ll look at your face. There should be a first aid kit in there.” He nods to the cabinet still covered in knives and then charges back through the curtain.

While Nigel makes five or six more trips, carrying buckets of water to God knows where, I limp to the cabinet and scour through a disturbing array of office supplies, shiny saw blades, and leather straps, until I find a white metal box and return to the stool. I pop it open and – surprise, surprise – it looks untouched. Nigel’s always prepared, and I suppose he beat that into Colorado Guy, too.

“Out of curiosity,” I call, sifting through bandages and tubes of ointment, “were you ever a Boy Scout?”

I can hear him scoffing as he works. “In Lithuania, a _Boy Scout_ is called a _boy._ No one had to take me camping to teach me how to stoke a fire or take care of myself.”

Well, la-di-da; the big shot wild man can stoke a fire and take care of himself. How impressive is that? “Hey, Wildman,” I call, “Let’s play a little game. You see an old lady who needs help crossing the road. What do you do?”

“Is she trying to torture me?” he snickers.

That would be an interesting scenario to explore. “No, not today,” I chuckle.

“Is she deaf, dumb, blind?”

“No, no, no.”

“Can she run?”

“No again; she’s feeble. She’s trying to cross a busy street.”

He steps through the curtain, looking like a nurse, with a ceramic bowl of fresh water and clean white rags draped over his shoulder. “If she can’t run, then I say easy lunch.” He smiles and winks at me, making his way across the room and I, like an idiot, laugh. My cheek stretches and burns and as I reach up to paw at it, he catches my hand before I further the damage, and then kneels in front of the fire.

“I guess that’s how I know you’re not a Boy Scout. You’d eat a defenseless old lady. You _are_ a wild man.”

“No, I'd never do that," he says. "An old bird like that would get stuck in my teeth.”

“You prefer baby meat, then?”

He slides his hand up my thigh and hisses through his teeth, “Not at all. But if you let that baby grow up, then you have dinner and a show – more practical and entertaining.”

Wild’s lecherous and menacing suggestion may not be comforting, but his lighthearted banter is, so I slide off the stool and sit in front of the blazing fire as he prepares to mend whatever's left of my bloody face.

In the flickering light, his wide pupils study the gash under my eye and the painful swelling across my throat while he rewraps my stitched hand without even looking down.

What’s his plan to “fix” this problem I’ve gotten us into? He seems far more composed now, even willing to joke and flirt with me, and I’m grateful to have his sure footing back; though I’m more than a little concerned he might still slip.

The cool, wet cloth brushes away dirt and dried blood until he uncovers the extent of the wound. My right cheek has been sliced – a line drawn from under my eye to the edge of my mouth. He seems preoccupied with my lips, though, carefully wiping the blood from the corners of my mouth. When he seems satisfied with whatever he sees, he smiles at me, and I grin like a dumbass again.

“It’s not actually as bad as it looks,” he says.

“It never is.”

He hums and cracks a smile, now focusing on the swollen bruise running under my chin. He carefully wipes the cloth across it, taking a moment to graze his thumb across my mouth and cheek as though I'm not noticing how much he wants to study my face.

I was hoping my injuries were superficial; so when I hold up several adhesive strips to dress the wound, he nods – no stitches needed this time.

“I think your trip home did you a world of good,” he says, closing the gash with the tape.

“Why do you say that?”

“You walked away with a broader perspective.”  

“I walked away less self-centered, you mean.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Regardless, you walked away from the pain, and that’s the first step towards happiness.” He gathers up the paper scraps, drops the bloody cloth back in the bowl, and returns to the kitchen without another word. I do feel different since my pilgrimage home, but I’d be hard-pressed to pinpoint exactly what’s changed. Wild certainly seems different, but that has nothing to do with me or our trip to bury my father.

“So I bitched up your plan,” I call to him, “Do you have a new one yet, or are we just winging this shit show?”

“I always have a plan,” he says. “Or at least a semblance of one. But you’re derailing up my life, you know that?”

That’s probably the only undeniable truth the man’s ever uttered to me. “I have a penchant for fucking things up. It’s like a hobby that I get no pleasure from.”

“That’s how I feel about fishing,” he snickers. Now I want to punch him.

“So what’s next, Wildman? Another midnight burial? I know I excel at grave-digging, and third time’s the charm, but my leg’s out of commission, so you’ll be doing all the work. Or maybe we should dine with the devil again? I’m sure you could whip something up; you seem to like that sort of shit. If not, your guy’s got to be keeping your jerky around here somewhere.”

I can hear him laughing and grumbling in the kitchen. “You’re a bad dog, Axe. You’re still high on your kill, thinking you’re king of the world now, ordering me around like that. Do I need to chain you up, boy? Teach you a little lesson in obedience?”

I just survived another near-death experience. My attitude is simply the result of a shit-ton of adrenaline loosening my tongue. I’m just relieved it’s not _my_ poorly-preserved head hanging over the fireplace. “I'm not sure I'm king of the _world_ , Wild, but I may be king of this here mountain. If you’re my only competition now, I think I've got a shot at maintaining the throne,” I say. “And you can _try_ to teach me whatever the hell you want. Doesn’t mean I’m listening.”

He laughs and clicks his tongue. I know he’s grinding his teeth, too. “You’re a bad damn dog,” he grumbles again, but his voice sounds far off, and I can hear sloshing and the floorboards creaking.

We both could use a lesson in self-control, but I’m quite happy to push that bastard’s buttons. For a few minutes there, I thought he might just beat the piss out of me. In fact, I’m not sure he won’t yet, but right now I’m unarmed and injured. He’s not going to do shit to me when I’m like this – wouldn’t be a fair fight.

When he returns to what I can only assume is the kitchen, my curiosity gets the best of me. “What the hell are you doing back there? Baking a damn cake?”

He pokes his head out and points at me. “I’m going to give the bad dog a bath. You stink, son.”

“What the hell do you think _you_ smell like?! Roses?”

“Not my daddy’s guts,” he laughs, and back into the kitchen he goes.

I will admit that I do smell a little like a dead animal. My clothes are trashed. I’m not used to living like a hobo gravedigger. Wild is, at least, maintaining some sort of civility. He’s still cleanly dressed and at some point trimmed his beard. My face is getting scruffier each day, filling out to match my scraggly mustache. Wild’s nails are still immaculate, and hell, he doesn’t smell like anything other than sweat and earth; and that’s not exactly unappealing me.

Eventually, he helps me stagger back through the kitchen and into the tiny windowless bathroom. The room is lit by the two lanterns and a dozen candles poured into tin cans. There are no faucets or pipes, just an iron tub and a small basin on a wooden table. A pile of dirty rags and clothes fills the corner, and the tub itself must be multipurpose. This feels less like a bathroom and more like part of the dead guy’s slaughterhouse. When I point at the remnants of a bloody handprint on the edge of the bathtub, Nigel swipes it away with a rag.

“One of the hardest concepts to drill into the mind of a pig is that cleanliness is next to godliness,” he says.

“I’d imagine a pig wouldn’t want to hear that.”

The inside of the tub looks clean, however, and it’s filled with milky, warm water. Is this a kind of soup he’s planning on preparing me in, or just filthy runoff?

“It’s only calcium," he answers before I can ask, "but I also added salt for your foot and chest.” He hands me a misshapen, off-white wad of soap. “This shit's harsh, so go easy on your ass, and for Christ's sake don't get it in your eyes – everything else, though, scrub clean.”

“Do you really find me that off-putting?”

“I’ve hauled sweeter-smelling carcasses out of the grill of my truck; what does that tell you?”

He leaves me scoffing to myself to retrieve more water from the wood stove. Off drop my clothes, and I carefully step into the tub, finding the water tepid – but it’s better than nothing. Wildman returns with the stool, and then the last pot of boiling water, pouring it at my feet.

“You didn’t kill my guy because he spit on you. If that was the case, you’d have snapped years ago.” He sets the pot on the floor and pulls out two cigarettes, lighting them both off a nearby candle. He hands me one, and I guess this is dinner.

“You’re right, I didn’t,” I say, leaning back in the tub. “I had an urge, and ever since Boulder, that urge is getting stronger.”

“Care to elaborate?” he asks, returning to the stool.

“I think it’s repayment or rebalancing, maybe – a form of righting my wrongs.”

He shakes his head, not following that logic, and leans back against the table. “A lifetime of petty inequity does not a killer make, Axeman. What _wrongs_ are you righting?”

He told me only a few days ago that when I finally trusted him, I should tell him of my wrongs. Since then, he’s threatened to kill me, made a mockery of my father’s burial, and led me into a lunatic’s hunting ground. He’s also kept me warm, fed me, bathed me, and offered his sympathetic ear. I would be lying if I said I didn't get excited when I see him – when I hear him mutter my nickname. I want to be near him. I enjoy our conversations, antagonistic or not, and I want more than anything to be able to trust him.

The cage I keep my past in has never been locked. I go there to hide in that self-inflicted prison as a penance for my wrongdoings. I have to come out whether I want to or not – Wild expects it of me, and I want him to know me – so I might as well fling open that door and let it out, teeth and all.

I sit up in the water and take a deep breath, which does nothing to ease my doubt – and then I just tell him, because I can’t carry this forever, and his back’s far stronger than mine.

“I replay that night in my head constantly, because I remember every detail of what happened. I was twenty years old and headed home, just outside Roanoke, but still in Virginia. I don’t remember anything right before it happened. My world went black, and suddenly my mouth hurt, like I’d been punched in the teeth. And then my eye – I couldn’t open it – pieces of glass had been blasted into my cheek.”

I glance up at him, and he leans forward on his knees, intently listening. There’s no backing out now.

“I couldn’t hear anything; my head was ringing and my door wouldn’t open, so I tried to crawl out the window. That’s when I realized something was making my arm limp.”

My fingers absent-mindedly rub the scar on my shoulder, because even now, fifteen years later, it still aches.

“It wasn’t a huge piece of metal – maybe six inches. It went in at an odd angle. With my window gone, though, I eventually crawled up and sort of fell out of the car.”

He watches me suck on my smoke, letting me draw out this pause as I grapple with the reality that I have to finish this story now. I have to tell him what I did and what they did to me because of it.

“What did you hit, Axeman?”

“A tree. It was a big oak on the side of the road just past a guardrail.”

He clicks his tongue and takes a long drag. “What did you really hit?”

"It was a tree. Didn't take any damage either – amazing how resilient old trees are. The car was completely destroyed."

He shakes his head because he doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me because I’ve been a liar my whole life.

“What did you hit, Axeman? And don't lie to me.” 

His eyes burrow into mine, patiently waiting for me to turn away first. I don’t talk about it. Like grief, you’re told not to talk about guilt. You’re supposed to forget these feelings. You’re supposed to swallow them down and hope that one day you’ll wake up and your body will have finally digested them. Mine never did, and they’ve filled my stomach for years.

“I hit another car.”

He nods, and his eyes briefly remind me of the nurse I’d woken up to. She had the same pitiful look on her face – that look that screams, _"What have you done, kid?"_

“Who did you kill, Axeman?”

I take a deep breath because that’s all I can do. I have no shield, no clothes, no weapon – nothing but milky water between my naked body and the truth. When I rub my mouth, stalling, Wild stands and closes the bathroom door, sealing us together in this candle-lit confessional before returning to the stool to wait.

“On impact?” I stutter.

He doesn’t move, and he says nothing. He just stares at my bandaged face, making my eyes drift back to the dark, murky water.

“He was a little boy – not even two,” I whisper. The child’s neck had snapped when our cars collided. I’ll never forget how tiny he looked, like a rag doll tossed in the back seat.

“What happened, son?”

I know he’s talking to me, but I’m not me. I’m cold despite the warm water, and if I were alone I’d probably let go of everything, dip my head below the surface, and take a deep breath. My mind doesn’t want to talk. It doesn’t want to share these pieces of my past because I’m not supposed to share them. I’ve been warned of what they do to me; but after fifteen years, my body’s tired of bearing the burden alone.

“I got out of the car and made it back to the road. It was barely dusk; I could still see. Her car was in the middle of the road, smashed all to hell. And then I heard her. It was just a long string of garbled shrieks ... Have you ever heard someone speak in tongues?” He slowly nods so I clear my throat. “It sounded like that – like frantic wailing through incomprehensible pain.”

I can’t approach the car again. I can’t look inside the window. I can’t see her again. It hurts too much to relive it.

Fingernails suddenly scratch down my face. They’re my nails. When they snag the gash on my cheek, he jerks my hand away and presses a cloth against my burning face. I can’t keep talking about this. I’m not supposed to talk about this. They told me never to talk about this.

“What did you see, Axe?” he says, and he pats away the blood like I don't deserve to have my face ripped off.

This is not his business. I don’t owe him this story, but I’m the one who started to tell him. I’m the one who wants him to know.

When I reach up and hold the cloth against my cheek, he pulls his hand away and waits again. “What did you see, Axeman?” 

There aren’t English words. I’ve tried to make them up, or flip through dictionaries to find them. Even when I eventually read the article in the newspaper to see what words they used, they were all wrong. They used “tragedy”, “horrific”, and “fatally injured,” like it was just any other accident. I had caused this irreversible chaos, and I had a single line in the newspaper telling the world that I, “a Maryland University college student, 20, of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, had also been hospitalized after the crash.” It didn’t put words to what I saw, what I heard, or how careless I’d been. It didn’t even hint at the truth.

“I saw a dying mother,” I choke, cradling my eyes. “Her skin was red and her clothes were soaked. Her face – her face was shredded, down to the bone.” In my head it plays like a movie reel, clicking and flickering until I get to her, and then it’s crystal clear.

“Axe?”

I don’t know what tore at her face – metal, hitting the wheel, her own fingers. There was so much blood, she looked inhuman like the victim in a slasher fic that came back to life. But her voice – her panicking, primal screams seared themselves into my mind.

“She cried for her children,” I whisper. “But not for God to save them. She begged _me_ to save them. She looked at me through the blood and glass in her eyes, and she begged me.”

“Did you help her?”

How could he ask me that? How could he assume that’d I’d ever been a decent human being?

“She was begging me to help her children because she could hear her daughter in the back seat. The girl was screaming for her mother – both her legs were broken.”

I feel as sick now as I did standing on the side of the road. No cars came. No trucks passed. It was just me and that family, bleeding out together in the middle of nowhere. 

“Did you help them, Axe?”

What was I supposed to do? They were dying … should I have let the child shriek in horror at her mother’s mangled face? Should I have let the suffering child be the last thing her mother saw before she died?

“What was I supposed to do?” I snap. “What choice was I supposed to make?! What’s more important – the dying’s need to know or the living’s memory?! You tell me!”

I hide my face in the cloth, shrouding myself from him and from God. It was a dark time that spanned years, that I never recovered from because you don't recover from that. I don't think you're supposed to.

“But no one survived?” he asks.

“Everyone died that night.”

“Did you end up _trying_ to help them?”

I sigh and lean back, letting the cloth drop into the water. “No. I didn’t. I let them scream." I let them cry in agony and beg – the mother trapped by the dash, and the four-year-old crippled next to her dead baby brother. "I turned and I ran like a coward into the woods, where I blacked out. When I woke up, I was on a gurney being told it was by the grace of God that I’d survived having been _thrown so far from my car.”_

Wild’s eyes aren’t fixed on me, but on the dark swirls twisting away from the cloth floating in the tub. He keeps opening his mouth to speak, and I hold my breath, wanting to hear his voice, but he bites his lip instead.

“I see her suffering face every day,” I continue when I realize he can’t find the right words either. _“Recovery,_  as they called it, was one unending nightmare." I relived the crash over and over in my head. I wanted it to stop – needed it to end, but I couldn’t even go to their funerals. The doctors refused to release me. They had to do this, and that – drug me, study me, sew up my chest. "When I was discharged, I obsessed over the accident. I couldn't let it go. I almost failed my senior year, and I lost my internship at Penn."

The woman had been married and the police wouldn’t give me his name. "They told me to leave her husband alone – to let him grieve. I’d just killed his whole family. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I wanted to hear about his wife and his children." I wanted to see pictures and to grieve with him. I wanted him to tell me what he needed to tell me, but no one would allow it. "I lived at the base of that tree for months, talking to her and her children because I couldn’t bring myself to leave. I played with them, and I brought her books to read."

“We all grieve in our own way, Axe.”

“Not everyone believes that – no one believes that. They said I was crazy. Someone called the cops. They said I was paranoid and confused. They said I needed to sleep it off. I didn’t agree with that, and when I faught them, I was drugged and institutionalized." I was not crazy. No one would believe me when I said that I could still talk to her, and that I could still see her. They said I was delusional and losing my mind.

I can tell by the look on his face that he knows quite well where this story’s going. He used to be a doctor; he understands that world.

“A week passed and I wouldn’t stop talking about her bloody face and the dead children because they haunted me every night. They said I was bothering the other patients, but I was just trying to talk to someone. No one wanted to listen, so they put me on Thorazine.” Wild suddenly huffs, drawing my attention to his face. “You’ve taken it?”

“No, but I administered it to anxious patients before surgery. It knocked you out and made you twitchy, didn’t it?” He shakes his head with the same disgust I feel now.

I’ve always been twitchy, but it made me disoriented and weak. "I would just lie in bed – couldn’t move. One day I was so hyper-focused on this little cut I had, that I picked at it until it bled.” If I run my finger along my hairline, I can still feel the tiny scar – an innocuous blemish that caused an entire year of agonizing isolation.

“They were insistent that I was trying to hurt myself – scratch off my face – so they changed my room to a padded cell. But I know they were just trying to get rid of me.”

Every hospital and nuthouse has a basement. It’s where they tuck the psychos when the rest of the building doesn’t want to hear their screams anymore. The lights never go out, and you’re lucky if you talk to someone once a week. It’s the place they send sickos who won’t stop being sick.

“The cell was one thing,” I say, “but to stop the picking, they put me in a straitjacket, and that’s when I really lost it. I kept yelling and spitting at the nurses.” You can’t do what they did to a normal person – you can’t call a sane person crazy and tie them up for hours on end. You can’t just be suddenly strapped to a bed when you sleep – unable to move or breathe – you go insane. You know what’s happening to you, but everyone treats you like you're mad, and pretty soon, you start to believe them.

“When they’d take off the restraints to slop me with water or change my clothes, I tried to get away. Then they said I was aggressive and they muzzled me, but I wasn’t aggressive. I was fighting for my life and my sanity.”

No one would listen when I said I wasn’t crazy. They said I was obsessive and needed to _get over it._ They told me the nightmares would go away if I just stopped thinking about them. They said it was my fault I was like this. I was choosing to be upset about what I'd done.

“They said I should move on, get married, have my own kids – that life was just a doctor's signature away. But to get the signature, I had to settle down. I had to stop crying. I had to stop talking to the people in my head. I had to let it all go or I would die in that cell. When I realized no one was going to listen to me no matter how much I pleaded, I finally gave up.”

“How long were you institutionalized?” he asks.

“A year and a half.”

His eyes close and he rubs his neck, huffing through his clenched jaw. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him. There are reasons I never share this story. My ex knew very little about what happened; it was my dirty little secret that I had planned to take to my grave. Once folks know that you've been locked in a nuthouse, they either pity you or fear you. They think you’ll snap one day and start killing more people. I guess sometimes they’re right.

Wildman doesn’t pity me, and he certainly doesn’t fear me. He’s as disgusted by the whole ordeal as I am.

“So you were buried and forgotten. How’d you get yourself out?” he asks. I wonder that myself.

“Dumb luck and a perceptive doctor – a young shrink. The doctors would diagnose me with something, and they kept diagnosing me, and they kept being wrong. I’d been locked up for a few months, and she was a woman, so they gave her all the lost causes. I remember the day she came in. I was laying on the floor of my cell. I’d just been scrubbed until my skin was raw, and I was mumbling about how they didn’t have to be so rough – I was basically drugged up and blathering to no one.

“She sat down next to me and said my name, and there was something about her voice that made me lift my head. She had long brown hair and this sweet, heartbroken smile, and it tore through my heart. I thought she was sad, and I wanted to make her feel better. She asked me how my day was going, and I said, ‘Men are stupid and vicious, but this is a lovely day.’”

Wild snickers, and his smile and understanding warms my sullen face. “What did she say?”  

“She just laughed, and I hadn’t heard real laughter in years. As fate would have it, she loved Vonnegut and had just finished  _Cat’s Cradle_. She'd gotten four of his books for her birthday.”

Wild shakes his head. “What are the odds?”

“Immeasurable.” To anyone else, I would’ve looked like a lunatic saying shit like that, but she saw that spark through the drug-induced haze and took the time to rekindle my dying fire. “So we talked: sitting on the padded floor, me stripped naked so I couldn’t hide a weapon." She'd insisted that they remove my jacket – I still don't know why. She demanded that the orderlies leave us alone despite the warden’s warnings that I was unpredictable. She didn’t think I was dangerous – said I wouldn’t hurt a fly – and she actually spoke to me like a human. "She brought me books – _Sirens,_ and Poe, a collection of Shakespeare." Eventually, I got my clothes back, but then one day, my speech started slurring, and she insisted that I stop being treated with drugs. "After four months without Thorazine, and after many, lengthy meetings to discuss what happened, she found that I'd stabilized enough to seem normal again. I lied and said the nightmares were gone. I lied about no longer seeing the children when I closed my eyes. And she signed off, saying I was _cured_ , then helped me find a job after my release – miraculously still in my field. Had to pull some strings to manage that.”

“Were you ever readmitted? More drugs? Anything?”

“No. About a month after I started teaching, I met my ex and we were married the next year as per doctor’s orders. I guess she was part of my treatment. Somehow a normal life was supposed to aid in my recovery after killing four innocent people. And now it’s five.”

Wild hums as he leans back on the stool, and begins counting on his fingers. “Your mother, the boy, the girl, the driver …” He shakes his head. “Four.”

“My father.”

“You didn’t kill your father.”

“Not with the bullet. I did far worse to him; I tortured him for a lifetime. He isn’t to blame for his death, and if he’s not to blame, it’s on my shoulders.”

“Fine, five. How do you feel about that?”

“I feel unbalanced – unstable. I feel like my life’s been in chaos because of it. I keep hurting people – I keep taking these innocent lives and leaving the world even more inequitable than before. It’s not right.”

“And the shadow, my butcher – you feel they correct what you’ve done?”

“In so many words, yes.”

That’s not easy to admit, and I’m ashamed to do so, but I do feel guilt being lifted off me each time I end the life of a vicious criminal. Within my mind flashes the faces of all their potential victims, all the pain and screams that could have lain in their wakes, and all of it is cut short by my hand. All those tortured souls fly off like birds, scattering at a gunshot to soar another day. I feel prideful and unapologetic. I’m simply returning to the soil a beast that never should have been.

My gaze drifts back to Wild, and I watch him slowly stand and unbutton his shirt. He’s still studying the dark bathwater like it’s speaking to him. When he turns to lay his shirt on the stool, something catches my eye.

“What is that? Under your shoulder blade,” I ask, motioning toward the three-inch oval inked on his back.

“A timepiece,” he says, and he quickly dismisses the thought as he unbuttons his jeans and kicks off his boots.

A clock? It’s messy and crude, and I squint in the dim candlelight to read the time. “You clearly didn’t do it yourself.”

“It was a gift from a man from a long time ago, Axe. A subtle reminder of something I had no intention of forgetting.”

“What happened at seven o’clock?”

“Nothing,” he says, draping the rest of his clothes over the stool and flicking his cigarette butt in the basin. “May I join you?”

I nod and drop my dampened cigarette to the floor. He steps in, hissing in feigned pain as his foot touches the lukewarm water. “I should've gotten in earlier,” he says, and he warmly grins despite his exhaustion.

He pretends that the chill doesn’t bother him, his face turning into a somber mask as he lowers himself into the water. Even though I feel ravaged and weak, I crack a smile and it breaks his stoicism as we both reflect on the absurdity that brought us to this tepid bath in a flickering box on a Colorado mountainside.

When his stomach meets mine, his arm wraps around me to cradle my neck, and I rest my back on the tub, finally relaxed now that I feel his body pressed against mine. We’re both still filthy and the soap’s been lost to the murky depths, but my smell must not be so bothersome now. His fingers comb through my shaggy hair as he nuzzles my neck, inhaling the scent of my skin. I probably smell even more like a wet dog now.

I’ve not yet touched his back like this, and I unconsciously finger the clock now that I know where and what it is. But when I feel his teeth and shoulders clench each time I trace it, I slide my hand up to grip the back of his neck instead. There’s no need for both of us to feel any more vulnerable than we already do. He can keep that secret as long as he wants – indefinitely if need be. I don't mind a little mystery.

His restless lips kiss my jaw until they find their way to my mouth, and he sighs against me – a reciprocated satisfaction filling us as we enjoy each other’s bodies.

His hips are already rocking between my thighs, and I have to wonder what brought on his unexpected need to touch me like this. I’ve been wanting to touch him since our altercation in my old bedroom, but I’ve not felt welcome enough to do so until I heard the click of the bathroom door closing only moments ago. I was suddenly locked in here with him – but not trapped. I feel safe here, protected and unjudged, free to expose the parts of me that I've kept hidden for a decade.

I don’t feel the water anymore, though it’s now raised to my bruised neck. His weightless body is all I can focus on, until my mind suddenly recalls his glassy, terrified eyes when we stood just outside the cabin. What I feel are his fingers strumming my lips and cheek while bandaging my face in front of the fire. I hear the compassion in his scoff when I tell him of my treatment during my break down. All I can think about are these little pieces of him that, for some unknown reason, now feel like pieces of me.

Whether intentional or not, he tugs at my heartstrings, forming a line between us that I can’t imagine severing. He’s my new safety net that I happily wrap myself in, because he makes me feel strong and invincible even when we’re both gripped by fear.

He needs to hold me now just as badly as I want to hold him. So we do, until, one by one, the flickering candles burn out and the water grows dark and cold, though neither of us bothers to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loyal reader, Tyler_Durden, commissioned [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com) to "surprise" him with art for this chapter, so enjoy the two pieces below! *tears up* Thank you, Tyler. <3
> 
> Art: [The Accident](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/yvVPTR2vxzYacbbRViU7UStzHBaXDSR-lKDlqKS4MiRHUeAVOg3BA66yD3dDOG2W7TaYJHy9S4toA8fo7t0NURiJcCtZ-e2bgGqK5kqXS3YA-vmpHZ1XFtrvE3UOgLOjPJqrPQrWgqopndlEiJo9H6yd6S5UUBB_GRTDtUWjE1VBjqB3DSL3yH9b_1iHATehrb7tBhlurQukVzItZ7c9eoFL1HGEfkpmL_u72hxeJ-vy_rdvUfCiXvgZ_1QqAMpTSzAOWAWxfmPnDq3n4cFazjoQjLciiuIF3QOLxoZJoZNyCp3MB4HHpCU76QVBrZpxLkT-m4RQpkEmgM9Q93VrJ022hRXPrIt635l3u-sri11DlIhYG88J_AUQ6WlD9_A-f8BQ_Iw5GZ8olo9Jl3SsCwTJZcHBTcRwcKdGMGDc69gbTyphlqVSXE2ng3X8tDw47sHMgaSosl6vvR98rdCYklRndvsHTKkRETcmQFsrmJTawgvPwLeSQ5xSYurzNNn8PmPaBPKxdCJmGaiDrMTmnub0xi2oHpNecdefwaNI-LqRySJQhyqpYbGLFa1Cv9IFXikLCQIg2Oq_feOBF2IzlbK2TAxA47inTTfo2sDdjPlgroNT_I1fNNYGF8kX_z2ZW9ipW2AySVYuaiAz7qLtBwvtsqrN9Q7yGw=w761-h799-no) by [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com/post/168007642962/once-i-was-twenty-years-old-my-fingers)  
> Art: [Coming Clean](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/nepGgqy7_X1mc8Y57SnnHkv8j9Tvu_2v9uk0jj4kbpEXm3-mChPfUzVGf35ftFVB8f2RQzgojJaaE6hxYJUB0w4HWagewnguQSIaqRC8Lr3INWqy4jC7K1zFE2VvdcAFb5nOpO9OolWfoIUe_0lmrSeRgiWRpJEJ8L0MqQUTRauDifbM4RKrqqdU0wW7BGe0-08rGXt90qBD-Yi_yto4xwdNPrO64QBaeaOWMfaelCicy7WM3nh3yKiuRXkEbeplJwbvRHvPveu1pl0VjeMLGuYph_54okk_TG3lVpiIrX7ob545aJcWSk8aXlLIkud-Jak-cV9lBusPwXELSyxhve8mV771Ft5ycro61KlmLIyuOoQpXpg1JENbBnesdmgbqZd2HAlOM0Bwi1jwqvaiZ-gPp0u2giPapIofpGP4_zzwoLlJxQkuHF0_MqZulOFdIN4cz-5xF0gYnxOA8Z9xXMieaoyRv_FbOoS3ymYFlSSnYYWreGb8AMyknMCog5tPy4qoN2Q5qTKSfNuTO2GV5R04LZkbh3S86CVfeH1X5M_OrFFK35z-bYfb9KSjvFOrzpe564GiS37i4W6rEMnwpabrP0vIMjFnv-K2kSg-Tm8q_ZTkOzBm4UXZ0ZOcO-XPxjYhbkQ32dTtmLp6rUHPMu8ZXPjFpwIsEw=w566-h799-no) by [toni-of-the-trees](https://toni-of-the-trees.tumblr.com/post/168007642962/once-i-was-twenty-years-old-my-fingers)


	26. Like Grimm Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all my readers who keep sticking with me through the long update times and ramblings. Come hell or high water, I will finish what I have started, it will just take time.

This pleasant little cottage balanced at the edge of oblivion was sold to me as a site of brutal carnage – a place where a man might find himself trapped, caged, and ritualistically cooked by a savage. I imagined a slaughterhouse where morality ambles unknowingly up a winding, trap-filled footpath, dropping its breadcrumbs, only to have them quickly consumed by the wildlife.

Instead, what I found waiting for me up here was not the _slaughter_ of my morality, but the opportunity to drop it like my own breadcrumbs when I wandered astray. Hungry animals live up here, so God only knows what condition it’ll be in if I ever find it again.

Wild had plans for us – to visit this cottage and then keep running – but those plans careened into a tree that I then willingly and violently chopped down. There’s no more tree, of course, but now we have the splintering aftermath to contend with.

We’ve been evading the law since Boulder, waiting to be caught and hiding our secrets from one another; but since entering this murky trough, things have felt a little different. This slowed time we now share as we float in frigid water feels like a precious gift to me. I’ve been afforded the opportunity to stop and reflect – to see the world a little clearer now that I’m seeing Wild in a slightly less hazy light.

My shivering arms embrace this phantom whose lips tremble as they kiss me, revealing his and my undeniable humanity. So I’m starting to believe that we haven’t lost as much as I assumed.

We could winter in this cannibal cottage, holed up like bears on the mountainside and warm each other by the fire as we live off our stores of flesh and fat. The world is our oyster, and I find it exceedingly difficult to think of anything better than remaining wrapped up in him as we discover what makes us both tick with such peculiar rhythms.

The only traces of warmth in our cold, black box are the pools of wax at the bottom of a dozen tin cans scattered around the room – that is, until a warm groan blows over my neck. He nuzzles me so I’m not startled by the boom of his voice next to my ear. “The fire’s probably out, and you haven’t eaten.”

I often forget about food because everything else takes precedence. I starve myself getting lost in a book. Sometimes when I talk to people, I’ll forget to breathe as I intently listen to the din of their particular voice, trying to make sense of their drivel. It’s only when a stranger comments on my shaking hands, or I catch my own gaunt reflection, that I realize I’ve gone days without eating or minutes without breathing.

“Are you even hungry?” It’s been less than a day since I last ate, and my body has plenty of muscle in my thighs yet to consume.

I can hear him smile as he growls against my skin. “Just for you.”

Any mention of my consumption continues to sound sinister, but as long as his desires for me remain sexual and not gastronomic, I’ll still find a little enjoyment in hearing them. Right now, however, we’re in a cold bath in a pitch black room.

“If humans were meant to fuck in water," I say, "we’d have been born with long scaly tails. Believe me – no one has a good time fucking in a tub.”

His gravelly laugh bounces around the quiet room, and for a second I think a storm’s approaching. “You know this from experience I take it?”

“From a bad experience, yes.”

“Care for a good experience? I could change your mind.”

There’s that big shot wild man again, kissing my cold, wet neck and out to prove his sexual prowess by showing me just how pleasurable he can make sex in an ice bath. Good luck.

“I’m not sure your dick could make me forget the rusty hooks hanging from the ceiling, or the permanently stained red floor. We’d be fucking in the rinse water of a blood trough, Wild. That, unfortunately for you, does not get me hard.”

The water jostles as he laughs, splashing me in the face, and I feel his hand getting comfy under my ass. “At least it’s not filled with blood, though it can be if you’d prefer that.”

“I might. Fresh blood would be considerably warmer.” I shiver and arch my back so his hand can keep exploring. I’m not completely against the idea of fooling around with him in here, I’m just not looking forward to regretting that decision come the morning.

Apparently, he’s not up for trough sex either. His hand leaves my ass to find the soap that’s been wedged between my hip and the tub and he leans back to rub it down the stitches on my chest. “Whatever we do, I’m not touching you until you’re clean.”

“Of body or mind?”

“Both – you still reek of maggots and martyrdom, neither of which I’m all that fond of.”

“Well damn, Wild, tell me how you really feel. And I think maggots are _cute;_ they’re just baby flies. It’s all about _perspective.”_

“You mean language.”

“That too.”

In the darkness, I hear him lathering the soap between his hands, and then the wad plunks back into the water. Wet fingers drag through my hair, and I inadvertently moan as my skin is overwhelmed with a profound tingle. His nails rake over my scalp, working soap down to the roots as he yanks on my hair. I want to cry, it feels so damn good. He scrubs until my eyes roll back, and then he lays me against the tub to, I assume, do the same to his own greasy, smoke-infused hair.

It’s rare to feel the touch of a person so eager to take care of me, even if that willingness is out of disgust or misplaced pity. The last time I was scrubbed by another person, I was naked with my hands against a wall and a drain between my feet. There had been no care given then, because I had yet to be diagnosed as alive.

With my eyes still closed, I let my body relax despite the chill until I jolt when he grabs my stiffening cock.

“Blood trough, my ass,” he scoffs. “Didn’t take much at all to get you hard: just a damn scratch on your head.”

“Fine, I concede –”

Lips smash against mine and groans roll into my mouth like he’s force-feeding me those little aches of pleasure that’ve built up in his belly. His hand tightens around my dick as he tugs, sending a torrent of blood from my brain to my lap, making me even more light-headed than I was when his nails scraped at my scalp.

I cannot for the life of me figure out why he is so fascinated with my body. He’s a lover of anatomy, but there is nothing notable about my bony hips and translucent skin – yet he can’t stop pawing and tasting me like I’m made of ambrosia. I feed this lust within him that only seems to surface when he watches me dissect a shadow or fell a particularly aggressive tree. I’m not complaining, it just seems a little odd for him to be so aroused by an unpredictable and twitchy asshole like myself.

He hooks my knees and slides me into the water, submerging my ears. I listen to the slow methodical beat of my pulse as his fingers comb pine needles and hallowed mud from my hair. It hasn’t been that long since my last necessary baptism, but I seem to have quite a knack for getting good and dirty when I’m with him.

He rinses himself, letting me float for a moment before his lips rush back to mine. I don’t return his kiss because I’m too exhausted, and I refuse to work when I don’t have to. I just enjoy his teeth chewing on my bottom lip, and his tongue searching my mouth for something substantial to eat.

A hand lifts my head and the hum of the underwater world falls silent. “I don’t fuck the dead, I eat them,” he says, “and you’re beginning to resemble a corpse.”

“At least I don’t smell like one anymore. But let’s not get hasty, Wildman. I think I still have a pulse.”

He nuzzles his nose across the bandages on my cheek like he’s sniffing for a snack. “Then let’s see if we can get your blood pumping again,” he says. With pleasure.

The water level drops when he stands and steps from the tub, then the door clicks and wet feet pat down the hall. Instead of jumping up to join him, my lazy mind drifts into another, less frigid world: one where hot hands slide up my body and lungs breathe life into my mouth. That world is bloody and pulsing with energy, warm and full-bellied. The blazing sun ignites a bright blue sky hovering above me, and I can feel the hard-packed earth warming my naked back. The air is rich and smells like late summer slaughter, fields of drying wheat, and smoky sweat that beads and drips from his chest onto mine. The air is dense there, and pollen floats like dust on the breeze, clinging to our wet, panting bodies.

A shiver rips up my spine, tearing me from that warmth, and when I open my eyes, the world is a black void again, full of unseen hooks and biting tongues.

A faint glow draws my attention beyond the open bathroom door; a lantern’s been left in the hall like a beacon for my freezing ass to follow. I climb out of the trough and my stiff body crashes to the floor. I lay there for a second, dazed and staring at a barely lit stack of books under the table against the wall. The spines are marked with a long string of numbers and the few closest to the floor are splattered with blood. He had reading material in a bathroom with no light or a toilet. This guy was a goddamn genius.

I push beyond my now throbbing injuries and stand, teeth chattering as I limp out of the bathroom. Though dark, the kitchen feels like a prison cell – morbid and claustrophobic – with only the essentials lining the walls: a low cupboard missing its door, an old milk can filled with that murky white water, and a stove, where I briefly warm my frigid hands. A few shelves store unlabeled cans and filled mason jars. In the daylight, I’d imagine the little window over the milk can would nicely frame the gully behind the cabin. If the damn thing hasn’t swelled shut, it would probably make a nice garbage chute, too.

Crackling snaps pull me away from the stove, through the heavy kitchen curtain, and into the flickering glow of the trophy room. The heat from the blazing fireplace engulfs my body like a warm wool blanket, and that overwhelming need to cry with pleasure almost drops me to my knees.

The bloody carpet has been replaced with a stack of blankets and sleeping bags, carefully flattened in front of the fireplace. On the walls, shadows of skulls and forest creatures dance like a parade of critters waltzing through a nursery. The room isn’t nearly as intimidating when there isn’t a madman sharpening an axe in the corner – but that’s probably true of any room. In fact, this place almost feels pleasant to me, now – a cozy little hideaway tucked in the trees and blanketed by the night sky.

A small pile of split wood has been set by the hearth, and on the table lie my glasses, my old school satchel, and a green canvas duffle bag – as if we’re moving into this shack. Seeing baggage in an otherwise empty room transports me back to the first night I spent alone in my apartment outside DC. It was a tiny, shitty little space like this one: just a water-damaged bedroom with no heat, and a shared bathroom down the hall; but it was the first time in my life I’d been free to do as I will. The solitude I felt having _chosen_ isolation rather than having it foisted on me was like a personalized gift from God … before he started dishing out his mighty wrath for all my relentless sinning.

As I hobble toward the fire, water still pooling beneath me, Wild comes in from outside and I stop when his scrutiny makes my skin prickle. He’s wearing nothing but his jeans and boots, and he stares at my naked ass like a letch until he rushes to the duffle and pulls out a towel. He wraps it around my waist, and playfully kisses my shoulder like that’s just what we do now.

“I was about to come rescue you from your watery grave,” he says.

“Where’s Garm?”

“I sent her to hunt, but she’ll probably just tear apart the body and fall asleep under the porch.”

“Leave the door open so she can sleep in here ... Why’d you bring up our gear?”

“It’s a few creature comforts for now. I’ll drag up the rest tomorrow since we’ll be here awhile.”

We’re here to restock supplies, not take a vacation, and this is certainly not a camping trip. “Is this the end of the road for me, Wild? Scrub me clean and then bury your hatchet?”

His hands viciously rub the towel down my ass and thighs; apparently, I can’t wash or dry myself. “I’m not making you limp down the mountain like this,” he says, and my ankle throbs just thinking about that. “And you cleared out the squatter. Might as well take advantage of having a stable roof for a bit – bury the hatchet, bury the body – got to bury something somewhere.” He winks like I didn’t get it – idiot.

“How long were you thinking of staying?”

“You have someplace more important to be? Tomorrow’s a new day. We get to deal with the results of your little outburst then. As for right now, you just worry about your own ass – maybe mine, too.” He nods to the pile of rags I’m assuming is the bed we’re sharing for the evening. “It’s clean,” he assures me. “And I found food that’s neither rotten nor still screaming.”

“A happy medium,” I say, and he chuckles.

“Do you want to eat now?”

He takes every opportunity he can to force feed me, and I have to wonder why he’s so fascinated with what I put in my mouth. “I need to piss.”

He nods to the front door and starts to drape my arm around his neck like I didn’t just walk into the room of my own accord. I pull away from his pandering hands, and since I have no privacy or dignity here, I use the towel to dry my hair, getting a face-full of that mossy smell that permeates everything the man touches.

As the room heats up, a bouquet of iron and decaying wood seeps from the log walls too, and I’m surrounded by the smell of deep isolation – a remote wilderness where one could hide with no hope of ever being found.

I drop the towel and limp outside to the porch, like the big boy that I am. I don’t care about anything anymore, least of all modesty. I probably should care, though, because Wild follows me outside. I’m assuming the bastard wants to watch me piss because that sounds like something the pervert would enjoy, and it wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it.

The sky’s unclouded for now, and the three-quarter moon lights up the grassy clearing around the house. It’s calm and still, and the water rushing through the gully layers a whooshing backdrop behind the crickets, leaves, and creaking trees. It sounds about as isolating at it smells.

A grinding flick snaps through the fresh air as Wild lights a smoke and waits for me to finish pissing off the edge of the porch. When I’m done, he hops down to the ground and circles around to stand at my feet, his head hovering in front of my belly as he looks up at me.

“You ready to eat yet?” he asks for the hundredth time.

“Let’s play a new game. It’s called _How long can Wildman go before he starts bitching about food?”_

“You need to eat, son.”

“You just lost the game. There was only the one rule, Wild. You can’t follow one goddamn rule?”

He’s ignoring me, and instead of retorting with some comment about me being a bad dog, he snakes his arms up my naked back and presses his coarse cheek into my gut. He cradles his cigarette between the fingers strumming under my shoulder blades, and the smoke burns my nose as it curls up my back.

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks.

I don’t give a flying rat's ass. “Since curiosity ain’t just a river in Egypt, Wildman, go for it.”

He moans against my stomach, “You’re a goddamn idiot.”

“We finally agree on something,” I snicker because it’s nice to finally hear him admit that.

He scoffs and kisses my belly, hesitating before finally asking, “If you could be given anything in the world – in the universe – right now, what would you choose?”

This doesn’t seem as painful a thought exercise as our experiment in torture had been, so I’ll bite. “To eat? Drink? Or are we going more abstract, like world peace or freeing Mandela?”

“Any of it.”

If I could have anything right now, while I’m naked and standing on the porch of a human slaughterhouse having just killed a man, spilled my guts, emptied my bladder, and with a cannibal hugging my stomach, what would I choose? Why, I feel somewhat overwhelmed with the possibilities.

“A smoke,” I say.

He hums, then rubs his temple against me so hard that I grab ahold of his wet hair to keep from stumbling back.

“Of all the world – across time and space – you pick an object that I’m currently holding in my hand. You’re either feeling at total peace, or not very creative. I honestly have no idea which.”

He offers me the cigarette, which I immediately inhale in a long, drawn-out drag, followed by a puff of smoke that I blow over his head.

“Right now, I need one thing, and one thing only, Wild: simple, undeniable confirmation that I am, in fact, still breathing, and your ciggy does just that.”

He smiles and then his head tips forward, sniffing and nipping the skin just under my navel, forcing me to stifle an embarrassing laugh.

“If you need further confirmation, I’m a trained doctor, Axe. I’d be happy to search your body for signs of life,” he says, and two fingers suddenly dig into my groin as he gropes for the faint throb of an artery.

“I have no doubt that you of all people could locate a good, strong pulse. I’m just not sure a probing is necessary.”

“As your doctor, I disagree.”

“Good thing you aren’t my doctor.”

“As a medical professional, I disagree with that as well.”

“You are _not_ a medical professional.”

“As a former medical professional, I strongly urge you to eat before your body feels compelled to die.”

“And if I don’t?”

His head tips back and his bearded chin digs into my skin. I can tell by his barely-illuminated eyes that he wants to know why. Why would I starve myself for no discernable reason?

“I’ve been led through the deep dark woods,” I say, “to a sweet little house where a nefarious creature tells me to fill my belly with treats. _Pay no mind to that hot stove,_ the creature tells me, _you just worry about plumping up like a good little goose._ Now you tell me, Wild, why would I go and do a silly thing like that?”

He clicks his teeth together, reading my face like a book. “Sounds to me like you’re in a bit of a jam, Hans.”

“I think you can clearly understand why I’m not chomping at the bit to gobble up whatever grub you want to serve me, whether it’s a chop from a long pig, or just a couple of eggs.”

“Either way, according to you, you’re going to die, and starvation is not a fun way to go. It’s brutal, and I know from experience.”

“But here’s the thing –  to die from starvation is _my_ choice, and that makes all the difference in the world.”

I can see him grinding his teeth. That comment bothered the shit out of him and now we’re finally getting somewhere. “You’d cut off your nose to spite your face?” he says. “That seems overly dramatic, even for someone with a flair for it like you.”

“No, but I’d slit my throat to avoid you doing it for me.”

“That sounds mighty Grimm of you.”

“It certainly does.”

“I meant the authors.”

“I know what you meant. But much like you, the brothers seemed a little too preoccupied with cannibalism for my taste. Must be a German thing,” I say.

He scoffs, and his voice is as sharp as the teeth he hisses through. “The Germans are nothing if not resourceful, I will give them that, but that’s the last thing I’ll ever give them.”

Is that so? I do believe he just snagged a thread of that pretty little suit of his. “What exactly have you already given them, Wild?” I cock an eyebrow like he’s actually going to tell me. “Maybe the time of day?”

He’s learning to temper his rage like a bull that scoffs at red, rather than needing to kill it outright. The anger is still in there, biding its time, but maybe today isn’t the day for a flashy showdown.

I will always find silence profound. It answers unanswerable questions. It asks what the tongue refuses to say. Silence speaks volumes when words are meaningless pap, and right now you could hear a pin hit the mossy ground.

I am still merciful, so when he doesn’t bite, I comb my finger through his hair and move on. “What about you? If you could have anything, what would it be?”

“An honest answer from you. Same question.”

My cigarette answer wasn’t good enough for him, I guess. His games are hard to play when he changes the rules to suit his wants, and what he wants is more of me. He wants deeper, more meaningful fodder to chew on than my simple test for proving I’m alive. “Do you plan to give me what I want if I tell you?”

“If it’s prudent to do so, I’d be honored.”

“You would shower me with gifts if you could. My God, Wild – how incredibly thoughtful of you.”

“I’ve already showered you with gifts.”

His idea of a gift is letting me sleep instead of stringing me up. That’s not what I’d consider particularly thoughtful, though I have been enjoying the rest.

“You want an _honest_ answer?” I ask.

“I know you have a penchant for untruths.”

I grit my teeth, but red’s always been a favorite color of mine, so I let that slide and tell him. “I want to fix what I did, but I can’t.”

That’s it; that’s all I’ve ever wanted. I want to correct the evils I’ve done, starting the day I was born. I want to live a life that I can never have and be a person that I can never be.

“I want to look at the sky and see something beautiful, not a view that I stole from innocent mothers and children. I don’t want to look in a mirror and see this shell that I’m supposed to feed and indulge like it deserves praise simply because it hasn’t died yet. You can’t give me that: not with food, or a bath, or your cock, despite what you want to believe. You’re not God, Wild, you’re just a crafty peddler selling magic beans to a _sad boy_ who's obsessed with self-pity. Stop pretending that you care about me because it’s getting mighty old.”

I call him a jerk, an asshole, a bastard, and the man laughs and throws shit at me. I call him a thief and he sets me straight. I call him desperate and I have to fear for my life. But I call him a fake – a peddler of lies and deception – and I have to wonder if I didn’t just break the son of a bitch.

I honestly thought he’d push me. I thought he’d bite me in the stomach and shove me off the porch for being so disrespectful after everything he’s done for me.

He does none of that. His eyes just close and his hands wrap tighter around me, pressing on the small of my back while he inhales against my belly again as though my smell is the only thing keeping him alive.

I don’t intentionally hurt people – at least I never have before – and watching his lips part to speak, but hearing no words, feels like I’m jiggling the knife I just stabbed in his back.

My muscles ache, and that fire is calling my cold, naked body to it. “I want to sleep,” I tell him, because at least it’s not a lie. I don’t want to be outside, anyway; it’s too open out here.

His hands drop and he lets me limp back into the cabin on my own. That heat hits me in the face again, and I burrow under the quilts, drawing them up to my chin while I stare into the crackling flames like a moth. The hunger I’ve been ignoring is rebuilding in my stomach. It makes me damn near change my mind, opting to let the bastard feed me rather than sleep, until I hear jeans and a heavy belt hit the floor and an unwanted shock of excitement bolts through my empty gut.

Wild slips into the bed and huddles against my back, and we just lie there – two dragons basking in the glow of the fire, his warm breath thawing my icy neck. He’s struggling to stay quiet now, battling his need to tell me exactly what he thinks of me.

He’s a man of few words, though. When he does have something to say, you better believe he’s carefully curated every syllable to be exactly what he wants you to hear, like a snob describing a wine in front of a group of hoity-toity assholes: “It’s _distinct_ and _full-bodied,”_ some guy would insist. “No,” he’d argue, “it’s _tight_ and _foxy,_ and you deserve every astringent sip, you jackass. Drink up.” ... That’s how I hear him, anyway.

It gives him a thrill to think he’s better than everyone; but with close, astute study, what he says and how he says it easily reveals the sinful intentions of the creature hidden inside. You just have to pay attention.

He does, however, appreciate frankness despite his own long-winded allegories and innuendos, and I know what I want to do with him while we lay exposed and cradled against each other’s scaly flesh. I may be exhausted, but I can’t stop my physical reaction to the slight rocking of his hips and the lips that remain glued to my shoulder.

The last time we messed around, he spared me the embarrassing game that children play: flirting and teasing and hoping for _special_ touches from that _special_ someone. We’re both too old to play a game of fumble-fuck on a couch, coming in our pants like a couple of kids.

This isn’t about sweet, innocent touches and delicate kisses on each other’s chins. There is no love to be made here. What Wild and I share is a business transaction of sorts, so I spare him all that guesswork and look over my shoulder, my cheek brushing against his nose. “I want you,” I tell him, and his teeth chew my neck as he listens. “I want you in the worst possible way … but not dead, I guess.”

His amusement blows across my neck, but I’m trying to be serious. I know I’m a idiot; he doesn’t have to call me on my stupidity again. I’ve never understood how to ask for the things that I want, and I certainly don’t demand sexual favors from people. Sex never goes my way – in fact, I don’t have a _way_ – I just do whatever my partner expects of me. It’s easier than being considered a selfish prick or a failure; you just do what they tell you to do, and it’s all over in a matter of minutes.

The quilt is slowly dragged off my body and he grips my waist, rolling me onto my back. “You’ll be wanting your _retributive justice_ then,” he snickers, and his gaze invasively ogles my naked skin now that he can see it in the light.

Half bathed in shadow, half glowing orange, his chiseled features flicker in the firelight like his skin is absorbing the heat with every breath. In turn, it emits a soft glow that highlights the sharp edge of his jaw and the intensity of his eyes – a living, breathing Géricault: lost at sea and wondering how long he has to wait before taking a bite out of me.

“Seems only fair,” I say.

His fingernails scratch down my ribs while he mulls over his reply. As much as he joked about this equity being something we’d both enjoy, I can’t fathom a scenario in which he’d allow me to invade his body like that. Men like Wild aren’t like me. They take what they want and rarely share their spoils. They’re controlling and authoritative and demand respect from everyone they meet. I was sane and lucid and still couldn’t convince a cop or a doctor that I was strong enough to survive my own goddamn thoughts. I can’t even get respect from a dog, and Wild knows that.

He tongues my nipple, drawing out my embarrassment for his own sadistic pleasure. I can’t make eye contact with him now, but what I can see of his lowered face is emotionless – a guise to hide whatever delight he’s suppressing at my expense. This isn’t a joke or an insignificant request to me, but my cheeks are already burning for even putting the suggestion out there.

My urges and sexual desires have always been considered immoral and perverse to modern, civilized society. In my youth, I just went underground, like everyone else. It didn’t take long to grow tired of hiding in dark corners with sordid men who didn’t know my name and only sucked me off for cash, but my only other option was the spiteful whore who I left at home. My secret life remained hidden behind bathroom doors, smoke-filled bars, and my ex-wife’s back – though she did catch on after awhile. I’d just wanted to feel relief, and since she’d slept with half the men in Baltimore, why shouldn’t I sleep with the other half? Eye for an eye, damnit.

In all those years – a decade of sweaty cash and leaking dicks, working _late_ and quickly showering when I got home to hide the smell of cum – I never asked someone for this. I was so emotionally assaulted by everyone I’d met that I never wanted to physically violate another person – that is, until now. It didn’t seem important enough to hurt someone over. I don’t want to hurt Wild either, but I still don’t know how concerned he is with my pain, so I’m finding it difficult to care about his.

I want to enjoy his teasing, and I want to share laughter and jokes, but he toys with me so much. At times like this, he derives so much pleasure from shaming me and making me feel like less of a man. He thinks I’m impulsive and weak-willed. I can’t feed or bathe myself; I can’t survive on my own. I’m a child to him, passing out over toilets and wedging my head under tires when I’m feeling sorry for myself.

All that lip service he paid me in the truck on the way to Louisiana was bullshit. He has no intention of reciprocating anything sexual with me. That’s not the type of man he is. He stood aside and watched me get attacked, he got me tangled up with the police over a murder I didn’t commit, and then sold my truck right out from under my nose. I gave up my life because I was lonely and because he made it so damn easy; and he happily took it without question, and now he does what he pleases with me.

His damp hair drags across my belly as he licks my skin, and his hot hands trail down my arms, until he stops and stares at my clenched fists. “You nervous?” he asks. I’m shaking my head when he cocks his like a fucking dog. “Do you want to be my _shadow,_ Axeman?” He smiles as he speaks, and the uptick in his voice is intentionally ribbing.

I don’t want to keep calling it that – _being a shadow._ I don’t want to associate what I did to that demon with what Wild and I do to each other. I want to _fuck_ him – plain and simple. I want to bite his neck, roll him on top of me, and hear him moan and pant while I assault his body with mine. We aren’t shadows or monsters or phantoms anymore. We bleed red blood. We cry in pain and pleasure. We both shake with fear. He’s not a ghost or a dark void – he’s a man with flaws no greater than my own, and neither of us are children any longer, giggling as we use euphemisms for “grownup” words.

I want him to share his body with me like I shared mine, but I refuse to demand his submission or use brute force the way he does; I’ve lived through that brutal torture myself, and I couldn’t do it to another human being.

If he agrees to share, I’d hope it would reflect his desire to have me as his equal rather than just a pet project he picked up outside Chicago.

The warm air of the room is stifling both my thoughts and my voice, so I clear my throat. “No, no shadow. It was a stupid idea; never mind.”  

He peers up at me through his shaggy hair. “If that’s what you want, so be it. It’s your call.”

And just like that, his mouth returns to my body, licking and sucking my thighs. There was no scoffing, or quips about the size of my dick, or the strength of my arms, or not being man enough to handle him. No derogatory names or attempts to make me feel insignificant under his grandeur. Maybe he didn’t understand what I was asking. Maybe these stupid metaphors are getting in the way of _honest_ answers.

“You don’t care then?” I only ask because a man like Wild always cares about everything _._

His head tips up from chewing on my hip, and his eyes narrow. Someone here is obviously confused. “Why would I care, Axe? What should stop me from enjoying myself with you?”

That’s a fair question, and I don’t know – shame, defacement, a loss of control? But Wild doesn’t live by anyone’s rules but his own – something I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with.

“However,” he says, and my whole body tenses, waiting for his inevitable condescension, “we won’t do it _your_ way. Your preferences are not particularly mine.” He rolls away and hops off the bed, and I watch his naked body duck behind the kitchen curtain.

 _My_ way? What way is _my_ way? I have no preferences. I just want us both to come as quickly as possible so we can get the fuck to sleep. We’re going to have to deal with the headless wonder out back first thing tomorrow morning before the goddamn thing starts drawing bears.

Wild returns, a cherry red ember now glowing between his lips and a glass jar in his hand. He crawls back into bed, handing me the jar, and offers me his smoke, which I decline as I sit up.

The jar he gave me contains a tan, solidified paste, and as I try to figure out what godawful shit this has to be, Wild pushes me back to the floor, attacking my mouth with his. I drop the jar, listening to it roll and plink against the hearth, and drag my fingers through his hair. Whatever his plans are, I’m not asking any more questions. I just want this bastard all over me.

He chews my lip and neck, letting his weight crush me like a lead blanket, protecting me from my own explosive thoughts. I know I’m twitchy – I’m touchy, too – and Wild’s figured out how to keep me grounded and defused so I don’t hurt myself, and I hate that he knows that much about me.

He keeps pulling away from my lips to look me in the eye, and before I dive too far into his deep black wells, he flops onto his belly beside me, popping the smoke back in his mouth as he rests his chin on his crossed arms. I guess he’s waiting for whatever the hell comes next.

“I see how it is,” I snap, and sit up next to the bastard. “I don’t _actually_ get to be your _shadow._ You’re going to make me do all the damn work again.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.” He sounds like a crusty old sea captain mumbling around his cigarette. “Jesus fucking Christ, Axe. Can you do anything but bitch?”

He’s the rudest, most tactless asshole I’ve ever met – and I don’t _bitch._ I was stating a fact. He plans to be a lazy ass and lay there like a dead fish. I spent a year of my marriage fucking a dead fish – never again.

I roll on top of his back and grip his damp hair, yanking his head back. “If I were you, I’d watch my damn mouth. I don’t _have_ to use whatever shit you just dropped in my lap.” He cringes at the thought, which I find even more amusing – goddamn candy ass. “But I wouldn’t do that to you,” I tell him, “Not to your tight little asshole. That’d just be mean, and I’m not cruel like you, Wildman, though I should be. Cruelty’s a gift after all, right? A birthday gift humanity gave itself; maybe we should fucking celebrate.”

I slide my hand up the crack of his ass and his face turns to me, an inaudible laugh shaking his chest. “Don’t show mercy, Axe. You know how I feel about mercy.”

I grind his chin into his arm before releasing his hair and lean back to have a look at the body I’m about to defile.

It’s like I’ve been trapped on a raft for months and just happened upon an island bursting with fresh water and ripe fruit. It’s an orgy for my eyes, stomach, and aching cock. The muscles of his back flicker and breathe with every lap of the fire – an Adonis sculpted directly under me – his naked body at my unmitigated whim, but not my mercy anymore.

If there were a time when I could fully appreciate Wild’s need to consume human flesh, it would be right now while I stare down at his fire-bathed skin covered in scars and bruises, and a three-inch clock that hides more secrets than my unreliable brain.

His back tastes sweet – woody and waxy like honey – and he’s dry from the heat of the fire. His skin burns under my lips, and I can’t consume him fast enough. I lick up his spine until I lose myself in his damp hair, letting my body go limp on top of him.

His satisfied moan at feeling my weight on him makes me want to flip him over so I can taste those groans in my mouth instead. I don’t, though, because having this hot, muscular back at my disposal is far more intoxicating than seeing this jackass’s smirking face.

I can’t stop groping his fleshed out ribs, still far more robust than my own sickly body. Just gripping his hips sends bolts of pleasure up my spine, and I unconsciously rock my body against his.

Wild’s head rolls to the side, his amused eyes now fucking the fire as he waits for me. What’s going through this grinning bastard’s brain? He’s far too relaxed for a man about to be violated.

I sit up again and force my knees between his thighs when he grumbles like he’s about to speak.

“You have a problem with what I’m doing?” I gouge my fingernails into his hips just to press my point.

“I want you to note that I’m _not_ reaching for a switchblade,” he says with a snicker, “Carry on, son.”

“Intentions have already been established, Wild; I’m springing nothing on your sorry ass. And it doesn't matter, anyway. My blade was returned to the earth when your boy jumped me; there’s nothing to reach for, even if you felt the need.”

He hums, and I watch his hand slowly lift the edge of the blankets. He pulls out my knife, snapping it open. Maybe he _is_ about to gut me.

He grips the blade, holding it over his shoulder for me to take. It’s cold and muddy and still stained with my own blood. “How the hell’d you find this?”

“The cabin was empty. You were gone. I can track animals, Axe, and I’m not an idiot like you. I found your bloody knife halfway down the mountain.” He’s got more to say, apparently, so he twists his upper body around so he can look me in the eye, but he scans my bandages instead. “I thought you’d taken a chunk out of him.”

His voice seems unusually strained considering I thought he was about to snap. And I’ve never seen this look. Even in the moments after I’d brought the axe down on the beast, his eyes didn’t look like this. They’re glassy in the firelight, and they make my chest ache so badly that I look away. I snap the knife closed and toss it on the table with the rest of the gear so I don’t lose the damn thing a second time, but I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze again.

“He tackled me – sliced open my face. The blood was mine.”

“I gathered,” he murmurs, and despite the low light of the fire, his eyes expose more of himself than his immodesty ever could. “You scared the shit out of me, Hopper.”

Well ... that’s how I felt about the whole situation, myself; I was terrified. “Near-death experiences will do that to you – though it was _my_ near death, not yours.” I scoff, but he keeps staring at my face, probably waiting for a more appropriate response to his admission of fear at believing the worst had happened to me. But to hell with that. “Death is an inevitability, Wild. We don’t fear death.”

“I’m not afraid to die,” he says, “but I told _you_ he was dangerous, and you did not heed my warning.”

“You’re right. I decided not to listen to you. I’m not afraid to die, either; I’m just a bit particular about my method of execution.”

His stern scowl practically assaults me. No one likes to feel that icy grip crushing their heart. No one likes to break out in a cold sweat as they flee for their life; but there’s more to Wild’s grimace than simply fear. There’s an anxious heartache tearing through his chest, and witnessing it sends that same foreboding though my own body.

His eyes drift back to the fire, so I guess he’s said his piece. I don’t like what’s happening to me any more than I like what’s happening to him. I don’t want this life or his connection to this world, but I do want him, and he comes with an unprecedented amount of baggage. And I’m realizing now that if our roles were reversed, I’d have torn into him so viciously for being that goddamn careless, he’d still be recovering.

I feel like I have to say something. This particular silence is godawful.

“I did manage to save your true love, though,” I say, glancing at the fire. The axe is unholstered and leaning against the fireplace, its bloody bit having been wiped clean with the wood he split and stacked on the hearth. “Lost her twice, too – once to the woods and once to your guy, but the way I saw it, I was more afraid of you than I was of that asshole, so I made sure to get her back for you.”

He cocks a half-hearted smile but doesn’t move, his eyes still fixed on the flames.

“I don’t want you to fear me,” he says, and the tangible pain in his voice rips me open and spills my guts right alongside his, no knife needed.

“Don’t knock a little fear, Wild. A healthy dose keeps the passion alive, and passion keeps blood pumping. I’d hate for either of us to get too comfortable ... we might start hating each other.”

He swallows but says nothing, so I’m left with just his warm, naked body spread out in front of me. His skin, still flickering orange and black, no longer looks like the tanned hide of a god, but rather the skin of a great warrior with a fatal flaw: an undipped heel, a vulnerability that even he refuses to acknowledge; and it’s the monkey literally clinging to his back.

I lean down, pressing my stomach against his back, and kiss his shoulder. I don’t want to be a burden any more than I want to be a coward, and the thought of spreading my weakness to him feels incredibly cruel and unjust, as though my unpredictable hand were ruining a priceless work of art.

The smell of his clean skin is still exhilarating, and I inhale a deep lung-filling breath at the nape of his neck. I don’t know if I should continue what we’re doing or not. I feel gutted. I feel broken. I feel his despondency all wrapped up in my own ineptitude and I don’t know what to do about it.

Before I can ask if he still wants me, his hand reaches back to my thigh and answers my question with a gentle tug. He’s willing and waiting, and as I sit back up, I watch his hand reach toward the hearth and set the jar upright again, drawing my attention to it with a tap on the lid.

He wants me to continue, so I twist it open. What I’m assuming is some sort of fat has liquefied in the jar, having been left so close to the fire. I bring a fingerful to my nose. It doesn’t smell like much of anything, except maybe fresh lard. I taste it, but it’s not so much a flavor as it is a mouthfeel – thick and coating on the tongue.

Then I notice his inquisitive eyes staring at me from over his shoulder. “I will make you whatever you want to eat at any time of the day, Axe. You don’t have to –”

“This is edible, right? I was just seeing what it was.”

His smirk has me regretting my taste immediately. “Do you like it?” he asks.

“It’s not bad; a little heavy on the ... _human corpses_ – at least I’m assuming.”

He laughs at my cocked head. While I have his rapt attention though, I rock up onto my knees and grab another palmful of fat, gliding it over my cock as his eyes drift down my body to gawk at my hand. He’s always seemed to enjoy watching me touch myself, so I might as well indulge us both.

“You just want to watch?” I say, squeezing a handful of his ass as I continue jerking my cock.

“I’m tempted.”

“I can come on you like this, but we should’ve started more water boiling; this is going to be a mess.”

He chuckles again, and I’m overcome with how much I love seeing him bite his lip when he bares his toothy smile. I get an immeasurable thrill at seeing his eyes light up when I make some perverted joke, or tease him about his unusually morbid eating habits. I’ll never get over how much joy I feel when he gets flustered by my comments and I discover threads of humanity sewn into his finely-tailored person suit.

When he laughs, I feel like I’ve completed a noble quest – I’ve found Jason’s Golden Fleece – and I’m suddenly proud of myself, realizing that every torment, bruise, and insult to get my prize was worth it just to hear that minuscule sound of delight. He’s amused by much of life – by _all_ of life – but when _I_ delight _him,_ it feels like the world lights up.

I tug on his hips and he rises to his hands and knees, the new angle illuminating that mysterious clock again. I’m inexplicably drawn to the little thing, and when I trace it, I hear his breath hitch – another piece of humanity barely flickering to the surface before he snuffs it and regains composure.

My fingers are already slick, so I slowly breach his body, listening for those moans of pleasure, rather than pain. He doesn’t whimper like I do; his moans are throaty and punctuated by a long raspy breath. He seems far more eager than I am, and when he pushes his body against my hand, I give up on going slow. We’re both too tired and strung out to waste any more time being apart.

When I ease myself into him, he releases a long-held groan, and I’m engulfed in a burning need to kiss him. But even if I could reach his lips, I don’t think I would. I don’t want his voice stifled. I want to know that I’m the cause of his panting breaths with every shove of my hips, and I want to watch his body grow comfortable and satisfied in my presence.

I’m still learning how to relax. I want to be open and trusting with him, but when his hand lurches to stabilize himself, or fingers clench the edge of the quilt, my gaze flicks to my knife on the table; I could reach it in a matter of seconds if I needed it, but I saw his Buck behind the duffle bag. I know he’s willingly unarmed.

I don’t _need_ my switchblade, but more importantly, I’m starting to not want to be armed when I’m with him. I ignore both of those troubling thoughts, focusing instead on the pleasure building between my rocking hips and his slicked ass as I watch beads of sweat roll down his back. The drops meander in crooked streams over his muscles, crossing the clock as his shoulders flex with every lurch. I’m enamored by that fucking clock. It’s sketchy and oblong, the ink bleeding from the edges of the numbers, softening the tattoo like a fading memory.

The longer I stay thrusting at his back, the more my physical pain betrays my need to stay buried inside him. My ankle aches when I shift my weight, and my bandaged hand can barely grip his thigh. I lean my belly over his ass and fumble with my good hand, hoping to at least jerk him while I rest against his back. I can’t grip anything with my numb fingers, so I stop moving, and my hand falls from his cock. It’s too goddamn late, and I’m too goddamn tired for this shit.

After a moment of me groaning in exhausted frustration, he finally chuckles to himself, and since he still has the damn smoke in his mouth, mumbles, “You officially dead now?”

To prove to us both that I’m still breathing, I slap at his face until I find and steal his cigarette. He calls me a thief, and he’s not wrong.

“Well, I guess you've slain your giant, Jack, now what?” he snickers.

“Where’s my damn goose, Wild? I’m supposed to get a dumb damn goose after all this effort.”

“I thought you _were_ the goose?” he laughs.

“Then give me the goddamn harp, then … something needs to set the mood.”

“I’d rather listen to _you_ than some bitchy harp,” he says. “You whimper like a puppy when we fuck.”

Jack’s third prize pops into my head. “No harp … I want a sack of gold. I want cold, hard cash – and I don’t whimper like a puppy.”

“You want cash for fucking me? You’re a little slut.”

Well, that was uncalled for, but I laugh against his back anyway, ashing our cig on the floor so I don’t have to leave his ass.

He clears his throat. “That’s what the cat called Little Red, did you know that? The cat called a little girl a slut for stripping off and burning her clothes before going to bed with the big bad wolf.”

That is messed up. “Those fucking Germans,” I scoff.

“Those _fucking_ Germans,” he repeats, and I lose it. Those perverted fucking Germans!

Seeing as I’m hysterical and starving, and I have nothing better to do than remain draped over his naked body, I bite his shoulder, raking my teeth over his skin until I hear him hiss.

“So are you giving up, then?” he says.

“Something like that.”

“Just use your hand. I’ll watch.”

There’s still fat glistening across my palm, but I can’t do anything with my left hand; it’ll take forever, and I’m practically asleep as it is. The fire feels like the midday sun now, scorching our flesh as we traipse over unending dunes. Life has rapidly turned unpleasant, and his skin sears me like a fine steak.

My head and his body quickly rise until we’re both upright, his arm holding me against his back. I slide off and out of him, my ass hitting the blankets, barely missing my bitched up ankle. This is hopeless. I am fucking hopeless.

He rolls over onto his back next to me, a grin spreading across his face as he pats his thigh and wags his finger, tempting me onto his lap. If he says one word – one goddamn mumble about me being a shitty lay – I’m grabbing that goddamn knife and splitting him open.

Thankfully for him, he does nothing but lick his lips, so I climb onto his lap and as I settle, he grabs my wrist, tosses the smoke into the fire, and slowly pours a pool of fat in the palm of my unsliced hand.

“I want to watch you play with yourself,” he says.

“I’m not left-handed.”

“Too bad.”

His smile’s obnoxious, but that perverted look in his eyes has me stroking my cock with the human fat he so generously gifted me. I never thought my first orgy would happen in such a repulsive fashion.

He bites his lip – tasting his own flesh when he can’t reach mine – and his eyes tip down to my shaking hand like a lonely drunkard at a strip club: no touching, just letching.

A low rumble vibrates from his chest, and he hisses through his teeth every time the pace of my fist changes enough for his hawk eyes to notice.  

“Enjoying yourself?” I ask, and he nods. “Still feels like I’m doing all the work.”

Naturally, the greedy bastard tucks his hands under the back of his head and just takes it all in.

“I’m not putting on a damn show for you,” I say, even though my voice is shaking, and my dick’s getting harder the longer he stares at me.

“That’s exactly what you’re doing, Axe. Dinner and a goddamn show.”

“You _do_ plan to eat me, then.”

“I was thinking about eating part of you right now, but you’d get to pick which part. I’m generous like that.”

Wild’s nothing if not benevolent. I don’t want him eating _any_ part of me except my tongue and dick, but I’m not sure how literal he’s being. I buy myself some time to think by dropping my own cock to grab his. I have to push past my instinctive hesitation, because it feels like I’m reaching for a viper, just waiting for those sharp fangs to sink in.

I stroke him in tight tugs, making his eyes roll back, until I decide he’s had enough and go back to my own dick.

“Take an ear, then. I don’t need it anyway.”

He laughs and opens his eyes, his gaze dropping right back to the cock I’m polishing. “Bad choice,” he tuts. “How will you hear my enchanting voice, Little Red?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He snickers. “Fine – then how will you read?”

Even though I barely wear my glasses anymore, that’s a good point. “Take my tongue, then. I’m not eating anyway.”

“Your tongue’s my favorite part of you, Axe, save maybe your lips. And I was thinking something a little more punitive.”

“And what exactly have I done wrong, Wild?”

“You lost my axe, so I get your ass. That was the deal.”

“That was not the deal. And I _found_ your axe again – safe and sound.”

“Yeah, but she was awfully dirty when I got her back. That’s not how you treat a lady. Of course, you wouldn’t know, would you?”

I never said I was a gentleman, and now he’s being picky. “Semantics. No deal, asshole.”

That fiery rage burns across his face, though the bastard’s smiling like a goddamn demon. His breathy voice repeats what I just said in a tone so nefarious that the hair on the back of my neck stands; I lean back, still gripping my cock like it’s going to somehow protect me from this red-eyed monster.

He sits up, his arms hauling me into his chest, and scrapes his fingernails down my back. His hands finally stop, digging into the flesh of my hips with a little too much excitement for my taste.

“That was the deal,” he growls. Then he launches me off his lap, my palms slamming on the bare wood floor, and that bastard chomps down on my ass like a rabid animal.

I holler and lunge forward, but he drags me back to him, his tongue doing shit to me that I wouldn’t let a dog.

His teeth gnaw on my ass cheek, and his tongue sweeps over me, and I can’t decide if I should try to escape his disturbing fixation with my asshole, or order the bastard to lick deeper. I’m thinking the latter when he surprisingly decides for me.

He wrenches my arms behind my back and my cheek slams against the floor, sending bolts of hot pain up my face. I yelp again as my vision blurs and teeth bite my thighs. He grabs my dick before my yell triggers something in his head, and he stops.

His arm wraps around my waist and he yanks me back into his lap. “Shit, son, I forgot about your face.”

My head’s swimming and blood is pouring off my chin when a towel is shoved against my cheek. I still can’t see shit, so I lean back on his shoulder. “Did you just bite my ass?!”

His response is a pitying laugh as he quickly kisses down my neck and across my shoulder, like all the sudden being sweet and innocent is going to change anything.

“And you called _me_ a bad dog!” I snap, “You just bit me! Bad! Bad dog!”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s laughing. “I forgot about your face.”

“I’m not talking about my face!”

He’s still laughing and whispering apologies as he showers me with the gentle affection he’d so easily misplaced thirty seconds ago. “I’m sorry, Hop,” he snickers again. “I forgot about your face.” He said that already.

When my vision returns, I blink and find him staring at my grin from over my shoulder. Romance was lost on this asshole long ago, if he ever had it to begin with. I, on the other hand, was considered the romantic one in my failed marriage. I did all that clichéd bullshit like bringing her flowers and buying jewelry. When she was sick, I brought her breakfast in bed. I even took her on a romantic getaway to a lake house on our first anniversary, but we spent a grand total of forty-five minutes together before she took off to find better company in a neighboring cabin.

I’ve got to hand it to Wild, though, I’m not blind, and he _is_ trying. His execution could use a little work, but hell, I’m probably not that easy to woo; though if he had a bottle of scotch this whole process would be going a hell of a lot smoother.

He pivots us both to the fire again, and I melt back against his chest, enjoying the all-encompassing heat while he attempts to coax me hard again.

“You are persistent,” I say. “Even in these trying times.”

“You said you wanted me. Change your mind?”

“Not in the least.” Faint kisses behind my ear seem to dissipate all my pain.

“We’re both tired, Hop, let’s just enjoy what we can before you do something else stupid like getting your other cheek sliced up.”

That should probably sound threatening, but it’s almost reassuring. My throbbing face reminds me of what happened outside, and I’m left more than a little concerned about the mess I’ve made. We still haven’t discussed it, and I shouldn’t have killed the butcher – if for no other reason than how much of his time he wasted training that bastard.

“I’m sorry for what I did to your boy; I don’t know what I was thinking.” I choke, suddenly unable breathe again. I’m a huge disappointing bastard who can’t take care of himself and leaves a destructive mess in his wake. “I thought I was doing something that I needed to do … maybe it was my temper. I don’t know.” A torrent of regret and self-hatred falls from the gray cloud over my head, and I try to stifle the sob caught in my chest. I don’t think he wants me to cry – hell, I don’t – but I’ve never been good at doing anything, least of all staying resilient. I know what I am. I know how easily I break.

I spend my time hiding in unlocked cages, rebuilding paper walls to defend myself, but Wild hands me a goddamn axe and gives me a reason to wield it rather than just curl into a ball, hoping for death.

I then could’ve told him that I hated myself, because I do. I could’ve said that I’m a piece of shit who hates the world because the world hates me – which is also true. I could’ve admitted that I’m clueless without help and that I’m hopeless. But that doesn’t seem as important as apologizing. “I’m sorry I keep failing you,” I say, and I can't hide my cracking voice any longer.

I shouldn’t wear this shit where he can see it; it just exposes the softest, weakest parts of me. But his hand doesn’t thrust a knife into that tender, emotional hole, it brushes the hair off my cheek, and I can feel his head barely shaking behind me.

“You may be an idiot and a complicated creature, son, but you’re not failing me. You’re just lost.”

I’ve done everything I could to find my way out of the woods that I wander aimlessly through. When I ran out of breadcrumbs, I shredded my clothes. When I ran out of scraps, I used chunks of my flesh. Now I’m skin and bones and surrounded by a meandering trail of my own pieces that I lost along the way. Even if I could gather them up again, I wouldn’t be the same. I’d be even more cracked, brittle, and useless than I am now.

The fist still in my lap slows, and those fangs of his keep finding their way down my neck. It’s weird to be crying and staring down as someone strokes your cock from behind – but I guess weird is not always a bad thing.

Between his bites and his nose combing through my hair, I finally relax enough in his arms to feel his heart beating against me and his breath whisper his wants against my neck. He tells me what I look like to him, and he doesn’t call me cute, or even sexy. He says I’m beautiful, and no one’s ever called me that before.

He makes me feel strong and somehow independent, even though I need him more than I need the air he keeps coaxing into my lungs. And I know you can’t have it both ways: independence from and dependence on someone else – but I guess that’s what happens when you bleed into another person like Wild. His strength is mine, and my weakness is his. We’re still exchanging our bodily fluids and the essences of our fundamental beliefs.

Even though, minutes later, I come all over the back of his hand, I don’t find it all that exhilarating anymore. It’s not exciting. It just feels like I’m taking a deep, cleansing breath when my body is ill or worried. It feels like a scratched itch after an exhausting day, or a good, long cry.

The fact that he can make me come at all when I’m beaten bloody and wracked with troubled thoughts is a miracle. Maybe it’s the novelty of having fresh hands and a new mouth traversing my body, or perhaps it’s just the primal human need to feel alive after you've convinced yourself that you should be dead.  

After I come, he pats my thigh – another _good boy_ –  and then his hand disappears behind me for a moment while he hums, licking his knuckles clean. He says he loves the way I taste, but I give condolences to his deadened tastebuds. He tells me to stop denigrating myself, but I don’t know how, so I just stop talking completely, and we both settle back on the blankets.

I watch him touch himself as the fire dies and the world dims. He knows his own body, and I get to study which fingers grip him looser than others. I note his pace and how much his wrist tightens when he alters his hold. I feel his fingers clench my skin and pull me to his chest as he draws closer to coming. I listen to his heart and for those barely audible moans when he kisses the top of my head. And when his end is imminent, I take him in my mouth as he comes, tasting him and exchanging our burdens in kind.

Wild has what he wants now, even if it comes with the price of uncertainty and heartache, and I can’t die of hunger or isolation just yet. I don’t think he’ll let me. I’m alone _with_ him now, and he brings ecstasy to my unending tragedy and warmth to my frigid deluge of pain.

Before he falls asleep, he shivers, so I crawl over him to stoke the fire, sure to knee him in his chuckling belly as I pass. I sit at the hearth, blowing at the base of the meager flame, coaxing sparks and snaps out of it. When the wood catches and the embers glow orange again, I crawl back next to him and find his breath soft and steady, and his eyes closed. He’s still smiling, though, so I lay my head on his chest and we both pass out cold, despite the growing fire I’ve just rekindled to keep us both warm until dawn.


	27. Dog-Eat-Dog

Attempting to escape the inevitable is like trying to hide from the sun’s scrutiny or evade the gnawing jaws of time. We can’t do these things because we aren't wizards. There are no holes in space into which we can fall and hide ourselves from the rest of the universe. We are stuck exactly where we stand, so we are forced to face the inevitable head-on, or die trying.

As a kid, I daydreamed to escape the coming pain. I’d push aside all the feelings that got tangled in my chest, lie like a corpse in the grass and look up.

What I saw were billowing opportunities to get lost: fish twirled and flopped out of water, spaceships launched and flew away, and trains took me halfway around the world in a single afternoon. The adventures of dragons were a favorite of mine. They could have great expansive wings ready to fly off to battle, or be shrouded in plumes of smoke having just laid waste to a village of peasants. They could even breathe fire if a ray of sunlight burst through them at just the right angle.

If I waited long enough, the scenes floating over me would transform and tell a heart-wrenching tale as the earth spun. It was magical to me, and looking back, I realize I may have been a wizard after all.

I see a sky full of dragons flying in the warm wind, the sun heating my face, and the dusty ground beneath my back. There’s no grass here, but rather walls of wheat swaying at my sides.

I can feel him. He’s hovering over my body. I can hear his breath, loud and close in my ear. I can smell his musky hair when it drags over my lips and gasp when my back lurches into the dirt. He wants to grind my bones into dust, lay me to rest in this furrowed field, and that thought gives me chills and a much-needed sense of relief.

His weight builds on my belly, and his mouth meets mine with unrestrained haste like it’s our first kiss all over again. Past his hair, I watch the dragons swoop and glide over us as fingers grope my neck and cheeks. He’s frantically touching every part of my face, remembering who I am and how he plucked me from the sky to return my flesh to the earth.

His body takes mine again, and as he says my name, we become that single beast with too many eyes witnessing the wrongs of men, too many teeth shredding flesh from bone, and too many stomachs for the likes of God.

The world is burning from within and all around us, but there is no fire. Smoke and ash blow into my face – thick, pungent clouds scorching my nose. But the only fires are those in his eyes and the one floating over us as it tans our naked hides. There are birds faintly singing in the distance, though I don’t remember there being any trees. Then the world dims, the wheat slows, and that bright blue sky begins to fade.

Like the circling dragons, my name drifts away on the wind, and that sun-lit world dissolves into gloomy corners, yawning bears, and little broken mallards all in a row.

A rush of hot, smoky air blows by my ear and a thumb brushes my lips. I hear a whisper against my face. _“I love being inside of you.”_

He loves being inside me … and I think I love it, too.

The breath and the thought make me shudder, but the deepening pressure on my gut holds me still. He takes my mouth, and a bitter tongue laps at mine. My eyes finally open, and his face draws away when he glances between our bodies.  

He’s on top of me and inside of me, and from the darkness, I can hear my own voice whimper and straining as I moan words that have no meaning here.

I watch my hand, heavy and weak, hover over the bed until it finds his shoulder, and my fingers return to his tattoo. He doesn’t flinch or slow his hips when it drags through numbers to massage the soaked skin under his shoulder-blade. His lips just find mine again, soft and hungry, inhaling my life and exhaling a far greater gift of warmth and pleasure.

When I finally kiss him back, he pulls away, still whispering. _“Are you awake now?”_

I nod, and he snickers, working his forearm under my neck.

I’m still mumbling and combing the rafters for dragons. They’ve flown to their caves tucked in mountainsides, but not in the big, purple mountains of the west; they’ve flown to the small blue ones, cut with rivers and streams good for catching trout.

His weight shifts between my thighs, and his other arm hooks my raised knee. He rolls his hips, pressing harder and deeper while his tongue tastes every inch of my neck. I tip my head forward because I want to watch him taking me, and catch him slide down my body to suck on and play with my nipples, a smile still plastered on his face.

It’s still dark, and we are still hidden, and I can’t tell where his hands end and my body begins. There is nothing but sweat and heat and his unrelenting smirk.

His breath picks up, and so does mine. His body keeps the pace of my panting, and my skin tingles – a whole body itch I can’t scratch without him. He snorts from his nose like a bull and looks up at me, copper eyes blazing and focused on mine. His mouth parts and his fangs peek through his wicked grin.

I bite my lip as I stare. I want to bite _his_ lip – the fat bottom one, soft and split where his boy elbowed him in the jaw – but he’s hissing through his teeth. He’s close to coming and wants to look me in the eye when he does.

I want to fall into his eyes, but I can’t. Those teeth he’s baring are drawing far too much of my attention. That mouth has enjoyed more unthinkable acts than the most vicious of criminals or killers.

Inches from my face floats a set of hungry fangs that rake over my living flesh with the same fervor as when they chew through the dead. I’ve never seen or enjoyed a mouth like his. It’s terrifying and captivating, bringing both unprecedented amounts of pain and pleasure to the world.

My hand finds his face, and I tug at the corner of his lips. With each thrust of his body, his breath pants over my fingers until I slip my thumb into his mouth. I don’t know why, but I press up against his razor-sharp canines. I’m utterly awestruck by the potential locked in each one.

He widens his jaw, inviting me inside himself, and I twist my thumb. I need to feel how sharp they are against something other than my tongue or neck. They’re tapered to a point that dips far below his other teeth, and when he smiles you feel the pull of Dracula’s charm.

It’s while I’m still focused on his fangs that his jaw closes against my nail. It taps lightly. Then it begins clenching, slowly crushing my flesh between his teeth. It stings, and my own jaw tightens. I want to yank away, but morbid curiosity gets the better of me.

I want to watch him bite me. I want to see how far this demon will test me. How far will he let himself go?

Does he plan to take my finger from me? Will he crunch through nail and bone and eat my deadened thumb? Will he spit or will he swallow me? How much necrotizing flesh does he plan to gnaw from my limp, useless body?

He clamps down and stares, and his lurches slow because he wants to watch me, too. What am I doing? Why am I not pulling away? What was I expecting to happen when I placed my hand in the jaw of a cannibal?

His grip tightens – a twinge of pain bolting through my wrist, and I hiss, digging my fingernails into his cheek.

He’s not letting up. He’s eyeing me and waiting for me to rip my hand from his mouth. If I felt so inclined, I could pull away. But I don’t, and he sees that brick wall building behind my eyes. If he wants me, he can take me, but I will not cower or forfeit any pissing contests any longer.

You don’t live through an unjust incarceration without developing a few tricks to pass the time and dull the pain. I can run like a fool, lie through my teeth, and hide in plain sight, and I would’ve thought he’d have caught on by now.

I have a safe place, though it wasn’t always safe. At first, it was a patch of gravel, a stretch of road, and an old oak missing a two-foot chunk of bark at hip level. But it gradually morphed as I aged. It was the glossy page of a National Geographic for a year. Then it was a park I cut through in Baltimore. Over time, it became the guarded place it is now. I went there for a moment in the parking lot in Boulder. I went for a few seconds when I was lost in the cornfields of Missouri. And I briefly enjoyed its fresh air before he found me hiding under a desk.

I grind my teeth and smile through the ache like a good boy. I nod a sincere good-bye at his narrowing gaze. I close my eyes, imagine the rain on my face, and fall away. 

* * *

The ground slams against my back, knocking the wind from my lungs – the most graceless ‘welcome home’ imaginable. The dull gray sky floods my view and finally I gasp, heaving until I fill my lungs with the smell of wet dirt.

When I can breathe steadily, I relax and enjoy the droplets splashing and rolling down my cheeks. It’s always raining here – a light sprinkle keeping dust and mosquitos out of the air.

I’ve always enjoyed the rain. It makes the soil fresh and invigorating. I find it ironic that dirt can be considered _fresh,_ and yet you know exactly what I mean.

It’s dirt. It’s worms. It’s earth and rain. It's what we painstakingly scrub from our hands after a long day outside. We sweep it away and avoid tracking it through our homes as though it is a sign of carelessness or destitution. It is not. Dirt is the epitome of life. I prefer having dirt under my nails. It makes me feel alive and reminds me that I can step outside whenever I want, which hasn’t always been the case.

I stand, picking up my toppled tackle box and fishing rod, and find my deciduous oasis stretched in front of me. Far from the reaches of lost hikers and picnic tables, my solitude gathers at the edge of this forest.

The ground underfoot has been tamped into a path which leads through an empty field, following a man-made fence. I don’t know who built the fence or forged this path – maybe it was me over the years – but I know where it leads. I follow it until I’m just inside the woods, where the faint tapping of rain on leaves tempts me farther into my private, sun-dappled world.

I flinch when my hand jerks, rattling my tackle, but I don’t look down. I know the pain will pass with time, and I won't allow it to rip me from this place.

The forest floor is covered in ferns – bright green leaves unfurling over a carpet of red and brown. The trail meanders past rotting stumps and rings of fungus, and I have to climb over a new and massive fallen log that now blocks the path. The papery bark slips under my hands and feet and even now, I find it amazing how much I get to rediscover about this place each time I come back. I don't remember birches ever growing here, but as I have found in the past, this world is constantly changing. 

At one point, I knew this place intimately, but life tends to overwhelm us, and we forget things. We have to remain present in our lives; there’s no time to escape. We awake to a screeching clock to eat cereal, drive a car to work, teach children, grade papers, cook dinner – the monotonous drivel of everyday life. We can’t escape it unless we read or daydream, but even then, when we snap back to reality, all we've accomplished is losing a chunk of time and replacing it with an overabundance of hopelessness.

I knew this place well, but it’s been years since I’ve returned long enough to walk beyond the fence. It’s been so long, in fact, that the path has overgrown. I can’t get lost here, though; I’ve tried. I always know where I am, and with each footstep, regardless of direction, I inch closer to the stream. If I walk three hundred sixty-eight steps, I’ll be standing at the bed. Three hundred seventy and I’ll be in the water. Three hundred seventy-five and I’ll see the glint of minnows at my feet. Four hundred or so and I could cast my line downstream.  

I don’t know what lies beyond the other bank. As far as my mind is concerned, it’s greenbrier and more woods. Four hundred one steps always seemed too daunting of a task for me. I have plenty to explore on this side of the stream, so there's been no need to go galavanting about.

At three hundred sixty-eight steps I stop, still dry and comfortable, the breeze cool and the rain only dampening my shoulders and ball cap. Mouths gulp at the surface of the water, but today is not a fishing day despite the equipment in my hands. Today is a sit and think day.

I drop my tackle box, lean my pole against a tree and sit on the stony bank. I’m not waiting, and I’m not hiding. I’m just being alive. I don’t have to do things here, or act like me or my old self. I don’t pretend here. I don’t lie here. I just am, and it’s freeing.

The edge of this stream is my sanctuary, and I've turned every stone that resides here. I’ve stripped off my clothes and swum naked upstream. I’ve climbed trees to dangle from branches like a child. I’ve fished for days without a bite and decorated overhanging limbs with my best lures. I’ve caught orange and brown salamanders – whole families of them – and lined them up, biggest to smallest, just for shits and giggles. It's not as easy as it sounds: they’re fast little devils.

I wear my fishing vest today; that doesn’t always happen. At times, I’ve been in such a hurry to get here that I’ve ended up in my underwear. Sometimes, I make it to the path fully loaded with gear, poles in hand, only to be yanked back to the madness of life.

I want to call this place a memory, because that's how it began, but this place exists nowhere else. I want to call it a dream, but I have far too much control to call it that. Plus, dreams are typically terrifying, and this place has never intentionally hurt me.

From my seat on the damp stones I peer upstream, and little orange flowers catch my eye. It's jewelweed or touch-me-nots – pretty names for a very pretty plant. Its small flowers are delicate: almost orchid-like in their complexity. When its thin, green pods are ripe and gently stroked, they explode, throwing their seeds at their would-be attacker. You can almost hear them yelp and toss the contents of their pockets, hoping to draw attention away from their pretty little petals.

The rest of the plant doesn’t look like much, just a juicy stem with standard oval leaves, but they also hold surprises. If you take a leaf, submerge it in water and check its delicate undersides, you’ll realize why it’s called jewelweed. It shines silver like the moon – a pretty pewter mirror, one you’d never know existed, unless you found this simple leaf and took it with you to the water’s edge.

Jewelweed tempts this behavior from us. It grows near streams and rivers. It likes the water as much as it likes showing off. It’s prideful of its beauty, though modest when dry, but you can’t blame the plant for being coy. Everything has secrets it wants to hide. It’s the nature of nature, and it’s beautiful.

My hand spasms, but I still won’t look down. He broke my skin like a bad dog, but right now, I don’t care. There’s another secret I’d like to share instead. It lies in the thick and succulent stem of the jewelweed plant. When you break it, out oozes a thin, clear liquid. It smells like nothing – maybe the color green – but its use is of monumental importance to someone who enjoys life off the beaten path.

The liquid in the plant is a balm. It soothes the itchy rash of poison ivy. Poison ivy is insidious; it’s a very rude plant. The rudest, probably, because it affects the largest number of people with the most annoying of irritations – a bothersome itch that scratching makes worse. It grows everywhere, and we all stumble into patches sooner or later. The oil coats shoelaces, to re-infect the skin between your fingers for weeks. The thin, vining stem dries on cut logs to be burned on a campfire, and the oils turn airborne. If you breathe this noxious smoke, your puffy face will ruin your fifth-grade class picture, and everyone will call you Pop-eye for the rest of the year. Ask me how I know.

Luckily for us, wherever there is jewelweed, there is a solution to be had. If you find yourself tearing at your own flesh because you’ve absentmindedly wandered astray, just find the nervous orange flowers with the secret silver leaves, snap the stem, and let it bleed over your wounds. It’s very soothing to the body and mind. Or so I’ve been told.

I don’t think I can continue. I don’t think I want to. He said he doesn’t fuck the dead. He said he eats them. My hand aches, and I wonder what’s left. How many pieces of me will he leave?

I take a deep breath and scan the edge of my stream again. A lump of overgrown honeysuckle still sits at the base of the marred oak. My cairn is under it, and I can’t believe it’s still standing. You would think the stream would’ve flooded after all these years since the rain never stops, but it has yet to be washed away. No animal has tipped it. No breeze toppled it. It stands two feet high – four large stones precariously marking the edge of my quiet stream.

All the pebbles on the bank are smooth and flat: perfect skipping stones for non-fishing days like today. But instead of skipping one, I find a special rock, one that’s about the size of my palm, blue and smooth yet rough around the edges. It’s shale – relatively fragile as far as rocks go.

Kneeling by my cairn, I carefully untwist the overgrowth. I rock the shale flake until it settles at the top of the pile. Now it looks like a dining table, ready for a gentle breeze to send it all tumbling down.

I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t actually want to be here. I could clean the fishing lines out of my trees, but that feels like work. I could organize my tackle box, but I seem to have lost my desire to care at the moment. My hand doesn’t ache anymore, but now I’m feverish and my skin prickles like I’m covered in ants.

I could clean the pebbly bank and poke away the dead fish snagged on tree roots. I could follow the edge and see if that mossy log still spans the stream. It’s probably still there, but why bother looking?

I’m not nervous, but I feel anxious like I’m missing something. I shouldn’t be here. This is my refuge, and I feel at odds now. Everywhere I look I see faces in the tree bark. I see smoke that’s not there. The wind laughs, and the sun filtering through the rain clouds seems to expose too much of this world.

I prefer dusk – that time just before you plunge into the deep. When I used to come here a lot, I’d make it dusk for days. I’d paint the twilight with the blood of the dying sun, and the clouds would mottle the sky with orange and purple. I would sit on the fence and enjoy the breeze of the sun rushing away – not bothering to wander those three hundred sixty-eight steps into the forest – and just watch the sky erupt.

I’d wished for solitude for decades. Even after I’d been forced into isolation, bound and gagged against my will, I still remained hopeful that I would one day find my peace. I thought I could remain alone forever in this place, if nowhere else, and yet today my seclusion feels somewhat disappointing. This place is insufferable today, and that’s both unacceptable and monumentally unfair.

Getting here when I need to escape can be difficult. It takes concentration, and that’s hard to obtain when you’re agitated. But I find leaving to be as quick and painless as simply waking up.

* * *

I gasp against his shoulder, and my eyes burst open. I’ve been hoisted into his lap. My head spins and my heart races. I'm not breathing, so I gulp mouthfuls of air, coughing against his neck as I grip his shoulders and try not to fall backward.

He presses me against his chest and hums into my ear. _“Where’d you go, gorgeous?”_

I take a second. I barely know where I am. The cabin feels upside down, but it’s just the disorienting haze of reverie. The threat of dawn is barely illuminating the windows. We’ve twisted so my back’s to the cold fire, and I’m staring through the blackness at the rectangle of indigo framing the grass where I slayed a man not twelve hours ago.

His hands have settled on my hips, and I forget about the death of yesterday. Today, I need life. I need to breathe. I need to fill my empty chest, so I inhale against his cheek, then over his ear, and then his cheek. He’s rocking me over his lap, and I feel like I’m disintegrating as I’m ground against his body.

I had words. They were here a moment ago: something to stop him or stop me or dull the pain. I choke when I try to speak and he slows, his head twisting to nuzzle my face.

“You with me?” he huffs.

I blink and try to focus on his breathy words.

I wasn’t with him ... but I might be now.

I need to ask why, but I can’t catch my breath. My chest is crushed against him, and his hand is tangled in my hair, wrenching me down while he fucks me.

I need to know, so I hiss through my teeth, _“Why did you bite me?”_

He nips my chin until I turn, and he kisses me, filling my mouth with his coppery spit. He's arrogantly force-feeding me my own blood. That's no answer to my question.

I grip his hair and jerk his head back, and he finally stops his assault.

A soft heat radiates from the white skin of his neck, and I sneer at his jugular. “Answer me.”

“You were begging to be bit.”

I yank his head and he grunts. That’s not a good enough answer. “Do you always bite the hand that feeds you?”

Both his snicker and his voice sound strained with his head so far back. He can't even see me. “You haven’t fed me yet, son.”

I beg to differ. I may not feed his belly, but I fill some empty hole that’s been aching for me since he first smirked at me outside Detroit.

I don’t care much for liars, and biters are rude. I didn’t ask to be bit, and I sure as hell didn't beg for it. I didn’t ask to be fucked while I slept either, and yet I’ve been rudely awakened – a dream spoiled and a fantasy ruined – and he’s still buried in my ass.

I twist my fingers through his hair again, inching his head farther back and exposing more of his lily-white neck. He wheezes and tries to clear his throat, but the bastard can’t even cough.

Biting is rude, and we can’t abide such rude behavior. We aren’t animals. And I’d hate to upset the harmony that’s developing between us by not reciprocating such tender and affectionate love bites. Eye for an eye, and tooth for a goddamn tooth.

A quick tug of his hair makes him grunt. I lick his shoulder so he knows just where my teeth are in the darkness. Then I trail my chin up his throat and through his beard to get his skin excited by all the potential locked away in _my_ jaw.

His throat is wide open, so I rock my hips to get his breath and blood pumping. He whines through his teeth – a bit of pleasure leaking out despite the pain. I know it’s unintentional, but that’s what makes it so enjoyable.

I, apparently, whimper like a puppy when we fuck; but he groans like a sad little ghost – all empty inside, just waiting and hoping for the right person to finally see him for what he is and fill him up.

Well, I see him – I see every part of him. I see those sharp fangs that he keeps flashing me. I sense those sad and lonely eyes that study me like a canvas while I sleep. I feel the desperation when he hugs me against his body.

He says he doesn’t fuck the dead, he eats them. But I’m not dead yet, and he just took a bite. Apparently we aren’t following rules anymore.

My teeth dig into his neck. I bite to draw blood and realize I’ve never done that before. I’m expecting to be torn off, but I still have a handful of his scalp. I'm not going anywhere.

Flesh is delicate and tender, and the human jaw is hungry. It’s only when he instinctively flinches that I begin to notice the tingle in my thumb. The pain turns into a throb the deeper my teeth sink – a sympathy pain of sorts – and I realize just how much I hope I hit an artery.

Beyond the warmth seeping across my lips, I feel his hands at the nape of my neck and my lower back. Nails dig into my spine. I don’t remember releasing his hair, but his head tips up and he kisses my neck right when my lips slip over his skin. I’d say he makes my mouth water, but I don't think it's spit.

It’s the warm, irony slick between my tongue and his throat that whets my appetite, and I go back for more. When my teeth settle back into the gouges he grunts, and I find myself rocking against his body. I’d love to rip off a chunk, let out a little of his noxious blood, but I just taste him instead. Today I’ll play nice, despite the bloody crack he left down my thumbnail.

As soon as he feels my jaw open again, he yanks my hair back and snarls. “Bad dogs bite.”

I know.

I spit in his face. “You bit first, you rude fucking mongrel.”

He shoves me off his lap, twisting me onto my hands and knees, and slams me back onto his cock. I choke, and a hand snakes over my chest. It reaches my neck and his thumb drives between my lips, hooking into my cheek. He hauls me up, arching my back, and growls into my ear. “Bite me now, Sad Boy. Spit on me again. Did you forget my admonition?”

I claw his arm and chomp at his thumb like a piranha, but I can’t catch his skin – and I’ve forgotten nothing. I grind my teeth, and the rest of his hand grips behind my ear. He thrusts his fist toward my shoulder, snapping my head to the side like he’s caught me by the gills.

I gag and hear him snicker. “You’re free to go wherever you see fit, gorgeous, but I like you right here with me. We have more fun that way. Aren’t you having fun?”

I mumble into his hand, _“I’m having a blast, sweetheart.”_

He kisses my cheek and starts fucking me so hard I can’t breathe. My spine is bent back and his fingers are locked around my jaw. He’s not going to let go until he’s finished. So be it, but I’m not staying for this.

I close my eyes and try to fall back to my stream, but he won’t let me. When my body goes limp, he blows into my ear, and I jolt back into the cabin.

He thinks my whining and twitching is funny. “Can't focus?” he breathes into my ear. “How unfortunate for you, son.”

He slams himself into me, and I whimper again, my lungs playing right into his sick games.

Spit pours down his wrist from my gaping mouth, and I mumble, _“Let go of me.”_

Oddly enough, he responds immediately, releasing my upper body. I fall forward, smacking my palms onto the floor, and feel him shifting behind me. His body barely lurches again – a quick reminder that he's still inside me, but I’m done with this shit.

I spit his blood onto the floor and sneer over my shoulder. “I’ve told you before, I’m not your goddamn toy.”

His fingers dig into my hips. “Stop being so entertaining, then.”

I rip his hands off my skin and crawl away, turning to sit and face him. He’s not going to treat me like an animal, biting and clawing at me to get his rocks off.

My chest heaves and I rub my eyes, trying to focus on his gray form. The darkness between us feels hot and thick, and I stare up at him, still kneeling at the edge of our sick and twisted love nest. Long, black lines weep from his neck, dissipating into the hair on his chest.

“What are you doing?” I snap, and something drips from my lip. I touch my face, smearing blood down my chin.

He cocks his brow like I’m talking nonsense. “You pulled me on top of you, Axe. What did you expect, a good night kiss?” He snickers and delicately fingers his neck. “I guess maybe you were.”

I had to bite him. He bit me. That’s how this works now. If I let him taste too much of me, there’s no telling what liberties he might take next.

He clears his throat and sits on his heels, waiting for me to make the next move.

I did not pull him on top of me. I didn’t start any of this. I was asleep. What is he out to prove with this brazen disrespect towards me? He thinks I’m an animal to tame, a beast to train and be sicced. Apparently, the easiest way to accomplish this is to assert his dominance: roll me on my back or take me from behind, nipping until I yelp. But he has no control here. He lies to himself more than I do.

He treats me like an animal and then celebrates my whims. He delights in watching me run down a monster, then panics when his precious plans change course.

I've stolen from him, used him, and humiliated him. I’ve spit in his face, and now he chews on my flesh, but he doesn’t swallow? He didn’t take my hand when he could have; he dropped it like a good boy, so what's to be done about that?

He called me beautiful but he has nothing to compare me to. He nuzzled me when I cried because he couldn't cope with my pain. He’s so lonely that he grows terrified when he can’t find me, and he doesn’t even know me. The bastard wants me alive because he's desperate. He _needs_ me alive, so who is in control?

My mind chews and tears apart my last month with him. What has he told me about himself? I know nothing. What has he claimed to be? Not a man, not a monster. He bites with antagonism and threatens me daily – I _must_ eat, I _must_ sleep, I _must_ follow him, or what?

My gut churns and twists, and I have to make a choice: stand or scramble – and I realize I’ve now lost my ability to make decisions. Has he eaten my rationality, or just my cowardice?

His hand slowly outstretches, beckoning me back to him; but one doesn’t take the devil’s hand willingly.

When I hesitate, he looks me in the eye. “Join me, Hopper,” he says, “And then at dawn, we’ll bask.”

He hasn’t changed – he can't – but he knows I have. I tipped my hand, and he took note. I should never have told this creature of my past. I should never have let him worm himself so far under my skin. I admitted that I feel like a failure in his presence, and that was my greatest folly.

His other hand taps his thigh, and he smiles. "Let's finish like Mississippi, when you got a little carried away." How bold of him to bring that up.

I glare and shake my head. “You mean when you rudely yanked me down on your cock?”

His hand drops and his eyes widen. I can tell he's suppressing a scoff. “I did no such thing. That was all you, Cowboy.”

“All me? I don't think–”

“You don't _think?”_ he interrupts. “That's your problem, boy, you don't think _enough,_ and then you think too much, and now you’re lying to my face.”

This conversation is entirely inappropriate. He fucked me awake, split open my hand, and now he's accusing me of lying. “I’m not a liar.”

“Say that again and I’ll break your goddamn neck, Hop. Don’t you lie to me.”

That seems a tad excessive, but I stop, and his eyes cut my face far worse than my pocket knife did.

Our relations in the truck weeks ago may not have happened exactly like I just said. Who’s to say? It’s not like we have a written record at our immediate disposal. But regardless, life is nothing but a series of events seen from a single perspective. We don't necessarily lie, we just share our own truths. He has his, I have mine, and never the twain shall meet.

But I suppose that’s not always the case ...

Given the opportunity to see the world from multiple perspectives, what would you do with that information? You’d adapt. You’d become something different from the rest of the world. You’d be a monster with many eyes.

I don’t have Wild’s charisma. I don’t have my ex-wife’s allure. I don’t have Junebug’s innocence, and I’ve had my dignity stripped from me more times than I can count. So what does that leave me with? What do I have?

I have my many eyes. They peek into people – seeing through the pain and agony of others – and they discover just what makes humanity tick. If I happen to use this skill to bend my truths, what’s it matter if no one’s the wiser? But then, of course, what happens when someone I meet suddenly wises up?

His narrowed eyes are reading my face like an open book, but lucky for me I can flip the pages pretty damn quickly.

After a long, paralyzing pause under his scrutiny, I hear a voice that sounds an awful lot like mine. “You make me nervous.”

His head tips back as he looks down his nose at me. He's scrolling through every word we’ve ever said to one another and weighing what he knows with what he feels and what he thinks, searching for all my little white lies. Am I lying again? It's a gamble.

He bites his lip and takes the high road. Good for him.

“Your blood’s pumping again," he tells himself, "Your mind’s still reeling from what happened outside, and in this room. You’re tired and you’re starving yourself, and because of that, I grant you amnesty for what you just said. But if I catch you in another lie, there will be hell to pay.”

He's always so calm and composed when he makes such threatening remarks. He holds out his hand again, his voice still soft, though fiery. “When it comes to you and me, Hopper, there can be no decisive victory; so I offer a truce.” Out pops Dracula's charm. "What have you got to lose, son?"

I glance down just in time to catch my hand – black, bruised, and swollen – rising to his. He's right. Between what I am and what I was, there is nothing. That bridge between my old life and this new one burned weeks ago. My only option now is to forge ahead, take the devil's offer, and stop looking back. There’s nothing back there anyway, except a half dozen burial mounds.

He sits on the bed, waiting for me to come back to him. I think I hear him breathing through the stagnant air of the cabin; but it’s me, huffing through my clenched teeth as I crawl over twisted blankets to press my stomach against his.

His hand returns to my hair, he kisses me through the bloody spit on both our faces, and we go back at it like nothing happened. We fuck like young lovers who have never tasted someone so sweet, or like old partners who know every inch of each other’s bodies, or like best friends trying to make the most of a painful situation. I want to think, but I can’t. I want to fight, but I don’t have the strength. I want to leave, but I have nowhere to go, and I’m starting to enjoy basking with this goddamn devil. He makes me forget my life. He makes me want to stay here, in the now, living between the hot, bloody pulses of my heartbeat: not lost within false memories, lies, or cold analytical thought.

I want to say his mouth on mine, or his calloused palm are what makes me come, but they aren’t. It’s not his smell that has already permeated my hair and the quilts we shared all night. It’s not his thumb spinning my wedding ring as he plays with my hand, or his hair getting tangled between my fingers when I grip his scalp and pull. It’s hearing his voice inside my head as it repeats my name, over and over again. That’s what makes me come between our stomachs.

He says we'll bask when the dawn finally breaks. We will unlock our jaws and unclench our eyes. We will bask in the glory of this beast we are creating. I just hope to God it doesn’t consume us both in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 27 rant](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-27-dog-eat-dog/).


	28. Whole Hog

It’s not dawn that wakes me up, because my eyes are still closed: it’s the cold stones of the hearth sucking the heat out of my lips. I’m an uncomfortable wad on the floor and feel like I’m being kissed by death.

At what point is waking up each morning just a stroke of dumb luck? Is it considered fortunate if you wake up on what you expected to be your deathbed? Or is an ordinary bed just as risky? What if the bed is a tattered nest of bloody quilts, crusted with mud and probably cum?

If you perpetually suffer in abject misery, or you’re stricken with a disease or mental affliction, waking up to live another day could be a rather unlucky circumstance to find yourself in. If instead of that tragedy however, you wake up in your lover’s arms, nestled in a warm and comfortable house, do you appreciate the good fortune that kept your heart pumping all night? I bet you a thousand bucks you don’t.

But it all makes me wonder: does luck build up over time, day after day, or does it strike suddenly? What if you arise one morning no longer plagued by unrelenting headaches? Lucky you. You get to go to work.

What if the next day you wake up with a twinge in your gut so agonizing you’re certain it’s going to kill you? Sure, you woke up, but now you have months of doctor visits, scar tissue, and a lifetime’s supply of medication to enjoy. Is it still _lucky you,_ or something different?

If luck doesn’t build up over time, are good and bad fortune only unforeseen and inexplicable events, like finding your lost wallet or being struck by a stray bullet?

But then, what if it happens at the same time?

“I’ve been looking everywhere for my wallet!” you say. “What luck!”

Bang.

So much for that.

Is there a neutral form of luck? Perhaps that’s what waking up is: neutral luck.

When I finally give up and peel open my eyes, I’m staring at pink and yellow roses dancing around a gold-trimmed teacup. It’s teetering on the hearth only a few inches from my face, my bottle of aspirin beside it – a pretty little present left for me by the fireplace, all wrapped up and waiting for my ascent back to earth. How sweet of Dr. Wildman to think of me first thing in the morning. I guess he was expecting my awakening to be as painful as it was lucky.

The jumbled mess of sleeping bags and blankets breathes softly beside me. Despite the long, bitter night we just shared, I roll over and wrap my arms around him, daring to roust the sleeping giant. If he also wakes up, we’re two for two.

I clear my throat and find myself getting a little too comfortable against his warm back. I settle into slowly humping his ass when a big, black muzzle turns and smacks me in the face.

I twist away and spit as Garm attacks my mouth and claws her way out from under the blankets just to see me. Her paws whack my sore chest, knocking the wind out of me as she bounces all over the bed. She obviously isn’t who I was expecting to wake up to, but this is a far better outcome. It’s really starting to feel like someone upstairs is looking out for me, now – Santa Claus just left me my very own fleabag to fuss over.

I sit up and scratch her short black coat and jostle her big slobbery jowls until her ears perk up and she crashes out the front door, having far more important things to tend to than my bruised and sorry ass.

I won’t lie; I’m a bit disappointed. At least the cabin is quiet again, save the low rumble of the river behind the house – but that might just be the unrelenting throb inside my head.

Whatever’s in the teacup is tepid now, and as red as last night’s bloody bathwater. It smells like sour berries, and that’s about how it tastes, too. It dries my mouth – but it’s probably sitting here for a reason, so I take a chance, snap back a handful of pills, gulp the sour swill, and lie down on the bed again. Every muscle aches, and as the tea sloshes in my empty gut, the pain of a thousand cuts and bruises finally hits me.

There is one very nice aspect to traveling this earth with a doctor: I keep waking up to my wounds wrapped in fresh gauze, and my stitches clean and dry. Wild has an affinity for treating me when I’m unconscious. I wonder if I’m a better patient when I’m knocked out, or if he really is playing with my balls.

This place – with its termite-softened rafters and decorative carcasses – feels as empty and detached as I do. I’m adrift at sea, nothing but water at my back, light from a rising sun, and wooden planks beneath me. The fire no longer snaps in the wood stove, and there is no distant roar of busy highways to remind me of the civilization we abandoned. I’m simply alone, naked, and listening to life bustling awake just outside these log walls.

A pair of my jeans lay discarded next to me, and lo and behold, my boots have been reunited, though the sole of one is a little worse for wear. After I dress, I hobble out to the porch expecting the place to feel gloomy and deserted, but it’s bright and lush – a veritable Eden.

The air seems crisp this far up the mountain, but you can feel the summer heat slowly thickening it as the sun warms the trees. Garm’s chasing squirrels up tree trunks, crashing through the brush and weaving around two decrepit outbuildings and a smokehouse tucked in the shadows of the woods. She’s hauling ass over piles of lumber until she finally nips the tail of something and shakes it to the ground. Beyond her is what looks like a new structure with fresh metal siding. There are tools strewn everywhere like a junkyard, and the woods breathe when the wind rustles the ceiling of leaves shrouding us from the sky.

I have to wonder why the hell we couldn’t have ascended the mountain in the daylight. Seems a bit more practical when you’re visiting a loose cannon who lives like a madman. I certainly could have disarmed him a lot faster, or at least seen his goddamn face before he attacked me.

I’m scanning the trees for signs of Wild when I hear a rooster crow. Off the far end of the porch is a clearing, and I limp around the back of the house. There’s an outhouse and a mess of a garden, all grown up and yellow, and about a dozen chickens scratching around the yard. Right in the middle of all that is a square silver hatch that I’m assuming leads right into the heart of the mountain. Colorado Guy has a tiny compound up here. Good for him.

A voice hollers behind me. “Morning, gorgeous!” I turn to find Wild shirtless and down in the woods, staring at me as he slides closed the door of the metal barn, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He knocks on the siding. “This is new! My guy’s been a very bad dog! Too bad you two didn’t get to chit-chat ... two fucking peas in a goddamn pod …”

“What’s in it?!” I call back.

“Utility sinks and hogs, and both are very bad news …” He trails off again and disappears behind the building.

Sinks and pigs are apparently no good. God forbid this place resemble a respectable slaughterhouse.

I stumble down the rocky path to the outbuilding and find Wild leaning on a fencepost, watching a half dozen pigs rummaging through the leaf litter.

“So your guy was moonlighting as a farmer? That’s not so bad. It _is_ the noblest profession.”

He narrows his eyes because he knows I’m lying. “I thought _teaching_ was the noblest profession?”

It is.

He stands and turns to me, shaking his head at my grin and snakes his arms around my waist. “Sleep well?” he asks.

“Like the dead.”

He smirks and tongues his canines like I’ve already forgotten what happened. “I’m glad you decided to join me.”

I probably I am, too, at least for now, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He lifts my hand to his face and kisses my bandaged thumb, but I have no use for his sudden remorse or his pity. “It feels so much better now, Wild. Want me to kiss yours?”

“Maybe after breakfast. I’d hate for you to get too excited. You might just take another bite.” He playfully kisses my palm and chews the skin on my wrist, then drops my hand and opens a side door, motioning for me to follow him inside the barn.

The place reeks of pig shit and silage. On either side of the aisle we’re walking down are three stalls, each empty now that Wild’s let them out into the woods.

“So he’s raising pigs,” I say. “Why’s that a problem? A man’s got to eat – and nothing beats bacon, I don’t care what you say.”

“The hogs could’ve been a fluke – I don’t give a shit that he’s keeping them – but they’re branded, and I’m not particularly fond of this brand. And that’s not all.” He and I stop in front of a long stainless steel sink full of cloudy water. “He’s soaking and stretching intestines.”

“Pigs … intestines … Have you been on the road so long that you’ve forgotten what sausage is?”

“Does that look like sausage to you?”

Metal rods rest across the troughs, each draped with long pink intestines. Above the sink are wooden frames wrapped in thin white cords. When I step back and look up, I realize dozens of white coils are hanging on nails all across the room. I’m not an expert, but none of it looks like sausage to me.

“He was making catgut,” he says with a snort. Then he yanks open the sliding door and I follow him outside again.

“I’d hate to see the size of the cat he cut those out of,” I say.

“I’d wager he’s making medical supplies. If that’s the case, I have a vague suspicion that my guy was no longer just _my_ guy – and that is not good news.”

No, I’d imagine that wouldn’t be good, considering the asshole’s no longer in service. “I suddenly feel like my actions last night were a tad hasty.”

“A tad,” he chuckles. “I’d agree with that. We need to get you fed, and then we’re going to have a little chat, son.”

I don’t like the way he says that. I can’t imagine this conversation ending well, but my stomach’s been howling, so I nod and we trudge back toward the cabin.

I realize as soon as we step inside that the table’s been cleared of our gear and set with some chipped enamel dishes and teacups, and I’m reminded of the sour bathwater I chugged for no reason.

Wild’s gone straight to the stove, his mind fixed on finally getting to do what he’s been begging to do since we got here.

“What was in my teacup?” I ask, plopping down in a chair.

“Rose hips,” he says, and I can hear that distinct scrape of cast iron over cast iron. “No coffee, no decent tea – best I could do. Roses grow everywhere up here.”

“Well that’s awfully sweet of you, Wild – going out and picking flowers for me. Your thoughts this morning were far more well-meaning than mine. I was going to flip you over and have another go at your ass until I damn near fucked the dog.”

He laughs, but then sneers. “I picked _berries_ for you, not flowers."

“Same sentiment,” I mumble and catch a whiff of wood smoke and sweet onions. “Smells good.”

“So you’re partaking in the lotus now? Imagine that ...”

“I think I will today. I’ll give it up tomorrow.”

“Good luck with that,” he snickers. “But now I’m glad I worked up your appetite this morning.”

Of course he is. He’s such a goddamn gentleman.

Wild has this place set like he did in Louisiana. F-O-R-K on the L-E-F-T – that’s how I always remembered how to set a table. Fork on the left. Spoon on the right. Knife blade pointing toward the plate – wouldn’t want to cut yourself while you’re chowing down. Teacup and saucer on the right – liquids go over the spoon, that just makes sense. If we had a bread plate it would be over the fork. My ex thought I was an idiot for not understanding this, but I was building toolboxes while she was playing house in school. She was _taught_ all this shit and never utilized it a day in her life. She left that to me.

Wild picked it up somewhere though, and it clearly wasn’t from an ex-wife. He’s got this sophisticated vein running through his body, pumping pure cobalt blood. Meanwhile the bluest thing on me is my fucking collar, which has mysteriously gone missing. “Where are all my clothes?”

“Hanging on the line by the cliff.”

He’s The Big Bad Wolf and Cinderella all rolled into one. “Do you ever sleep?”

“Like a goddamn baby.”

I’ve never understood that saying. “Babies are up all night.”

“And so am I,” he says. “I washed all your rags, pleasured you until you passed out again, and searched the grounds. I like to keep busy.”

“You’d make a fine wife, Wild. Dare I say the finest?” I snicker, but he’s not amused. “Find anything besides the hogs?”

He pushes through the curtain with a skillet and heaps a huge pile of scrambled eggs on both our plates. “I did find something of note.”

He then ducks back in the kitchen, dropping off the pan, and returns with salt and pepper and a kettle to refill my teacup with more bloody rose water.

Whatever he served is piping hot, and the steam smells like garlic. The eggs are decorated with red and green flecks and slices of smoked meat. I guess he _is_ familiar with the sausage making process.

“So who or what's the grub?” I ask. Doesn’t matter at this point though. My mouth is already watering.

“It's just a little scrambled protein that I found when I raided the coop and the smokehouse. It’s been cooked in a skillet full of fat, and there’s more on the stove. You’ll eat until you’re sick.”

“You used the sexy fat?”

He laughs and drops the kettle in the kitchen. “I waterproofed your boots with it too.”

Damn, it is certainly multi-purpose. I take a bite of eggs: smoky, sweet applewood and sage – just the way a good sausage should taste. “Still trying to fatten me up?”

“I need you able to walk, and I don’t enjoy fucking skeletons. So don’t you start arguing with me, and just eat like a good little pup.” He plops down across from me, a new cigarette smoldering between his lips, but before he picks up his fork he gives my bare nipples a good once-over.

“Is there something you’re hoping to find when you look me over like that? Maybe a zipper or a tear? Or are you just deciding what cut you’ll be enjoying first?”

He takes a drag as he chuckles, unfolding his napkin in his lap like a well-polished man. “Just admiring you in the daylight. I have an affinity for flesh, Axe. If I could convince you to walk around bare-assed all the time, I would.”

I grumble and take another bite. At least he’s straightforward. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying the show.”

“I’m enjoying your body, that is true. Your fickle brain can be a little hard to take sometimes.”

“You said you liked my unpredictability, Wild. I’d hate to confuse and disappoint you by suddenly making lucid, rational decisions.”

He’s laughing with his mouth full of food, so I continue, “You said you found something. Care to elaborate?”

“It’s a bit of a mixed bag, but I think it might be exactly what you’ve been looking for.” He leaves the table and heads to the low cupboard where the first aid kit was stashed and pulls out a Rolodex. He twists it, fluttering the cards, drops it in the middle of the table and points at it. “That right there makes my guy a very bad dog indeed.”

While Wild returns to his breakfast, I look over the wheel of manilla cards. Each one has a strange string of words and a random number scrawled across it. It’s intriguing enough that I set down my fork, which makes Wild huff at my flagrant disobedience.

“What am I looking at?”

“Mr. Moonlighting’s been listening to the news, and I’m guessing took on a few extra clients. I’m not nearly as pissed about you axing him now.”

Hearing Wild say that lifts a monumental weight off my troubled shoulders. But there has to be a hundred cards in the Rolodex, and how is knowing this exists going to solve any problems?

He nods to my plate so I reluctantly pick up my fork. “I’m not seeing the good in this mixed bag, Wild. That’s a whole lotta people – some of which are bound to come knocking.”

“We’ll stay a month to let you heal, but be long gone before they know shit.”

My satchel’s lying against the wall by my chair, so I grab my glasses to return to the Rolodex with a bit more focus. The cards, however, make no sense. The numbers aren’t sequential, nor are the phrases understandable. They read like some sort of cryptic code or secret message.

_The green Diamond._

I pull out another one: _Multiple Miggs._

And another: _Truckee River._

“What the hell are these?” I ask.

“Just keep your eyes peeled.” He goes back to his food while I flip through more cards until I stop and yank out another.

 _“Nigel,”_ I read. “These are nicknames.”

He points at the cards with his fork. “It’s the bastard’s net. He’s keeping track. Call them potential clients, potential employers, whatever you will, but they are the shit you scrape off your goddamn boots. Myself excluded, of course.”

“What is this, a mob thing? A cult? Or some sort of criminal faction?”

He drops his fork and lets out a long sigh. I’ve apparently lost my appeal all the sudden. He wipes his snarling mouth and leans back in his chair. “They’re all independent as far as I know. I don’t associate with them, though that hasn’t always been the case –”

“You’re telling me there’s a _network_ of you people?”

He squints at me, and before I even hear his seat scrape the floor, fingers grip my hair and my chair tips, clattering backward. He drags me from the table, his other arm wrapped around my chest, and hauls me out the front door, down the porch steps, and across the yard. I can’t pry his arms off me, and we’re headed for the cliff. This son of a bitch is going to toss me down the gorge!

By the time I wrench away, a boot smacks my ass and I land on my hands and knees over the headless corpse behind the cabin.

His voice booms behind me, each word enunciated slowly so I get it. “Am I an undisciplined, uneducated, disrespectful rube?” He nudges me with his foot like I’m supposed answer. “This type of unthinking, hasty bullshit is _your_ doing, Axeman. It’s _their_ doing. Not mine. Best you figure that out right now.” He turns and walks away, leaving me chest to chest, but not face to face with what’s left of Mr. Moonlighting.

That was sudden, though not wholly unexpected – but I’m not going to fault him for it. I could have chosen a better way to say what I did. I shouldn’t be comparing him to anyone, least of all myself. I’m not above admitting when I’m wrong, and right now I feel like I’m skittering across ice that keeps cracking the more I open my damn mouth.

At this point he’s caught me lying to him, and I know that pissed him off. He has divulged his own intimate secrets which I know is not his norm. We have shared more than just a bed now, and I feel his expectations of me building, despite his obvious internal conflict with even letting me live.

The dirt under my palms gives way with a crackle, and I lift one to find a pile of feathers and slimy eggshells. They’re under my knees and boots, too. The window in the kitchen is directly over me. He threw us in the goddamn trash.

Something’s digging into my belly and I sit up to find that an animal has torn into the abdomen of the body, exposing the bony fingers of its ribcage. My gut is covered in blood again, and my hands and jeans are soaked with raw eggs. So much for staying clean.

I stand and flick off the bits of shell and feathers stuck to my pants and limp back to the cabin. He’s leaning by the door on the porch, and my first thought is he’s banishing me to the woods.

He doesn’t wave me away, however. He just stares, chewing on his tongue like it’s a wad of sour cud and he can’t decide if he should swallow it. If it were me, I’d spit it out.

“You look like a baby bird with broken wings,” he says, and cocks his own eye at that ridiculous statement.

I flick my wrist, sending egg white slime to the ground, and hiss, “You’re so eloquent and polite. I feel like I’ll never live up to your shining grace.”

“I’m on edge,” he finally admits, like I’m expecting an explanation for anything he ever does.

“Is that an apology?”

“No, but it’s not an excuse either.”

“Well, now I know: don’t compare Wildman to the sick _rubes_ that haunt this earth, because God forbid he be considered one of _us.”_

When I hop up the step and he doesn’t refuse me entry, I push past him and head to the kitchen to clean myself up.

After a quick rubdown that does nothing but sop bloody water down my jeans and stick downy feathers in my hair, I hobble back into the trophy room. Wild’s at the table again waiting for me. I lock eyes with him and untie my boots, tossing them into the corner. I strip off my wet jeans and throw them out the open door to dry. And now once again I’m naked, and looking like a bloody chicken as I sit back down to breakfast.

“It was my plan all along,” he snickers. I flip him the bird and shove more eggs down my throat. My lumpy, yellow breakfast is cold now, which is more infuriating than sitting here naked, but at least the sausage helps with the flavor.

Wild letches until I take my last bite. Then I lean over, snatch the smoke from his lips and return to my chair, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “So there’s a network of _those_ people?” I finally say, waving toward the Rolodex. “At least fifty, I’d say. Maybe a hundred. And some probably relied on the bastard you just rubbed my nose in. You said this was a mixed bag, Wild. I’m seeing lots of problems – lots of danger, and not a lot of opportunities here. Care to share your thoughts with the class?”

“You said you wanted to right your wrongs – fix your self-inflicted mistakes. What I’m presenting to you is an opportunity to do just that.”

I’m not following. How am I supposed to fix my mistakes with an indecipherable pile of nicknames and numbers?

My unblinking eyes and general disdain forces him to continue without my reply. “In the tub last night, you said you swung my axe with a purpose. You said you felt an urge overtake you – a need to balance something – like you were repaying God for your transgressions. Am I mistaken?”

“No. That’s what I said.”

“By your own faulty and unreliable logic, you have five _innocent_ victims under your belt, and you’ve killed three –“

“I’ve killed _two –”_

 _"Two_ of what you consider to be, what? Bad guys? Villains? Psychopaths?”

Those cretins were a scourge upon the land. They were the sinister creatures that they warn children to fear. They were the big bad wolves, the bone-crushing giants, and the beings that pray on the weak. Yes, they were bad guys. They were villains. They were the psychos that feel no remorse, no guilt, and no fear when it comes to hurting other people.

Wild casually flips through the cards, waiting for me to answer as he finishes his breakfast. He lights another smoke and continues, “By your generous ethical equation, you’re looking for three bad guys to even your score, is that correct?”  

“I’m not looking for anything or anyone to _even my score,_ Wild – not intentionally.”

“But let’s say, hypothetically, you were given a stack of such men – very rude, very vile men. Men who choke out the _good_ in favor of letting the malevolent grow up like weeds.”

Rudeness is subjective. “I don’t know _anything_ about these men, let alone enough to make such a brazen judgment call as to whether they deserve to keep on living.”

“We aren’t talking pickpockets, Axe. We aren’t talking about daddies stealing bread to feed their starving children. We aren’t talking punks painting dicks on cars because they’re idiots. I’m talking dregs – the very bottom of the barrel. They reap but do not sow, then they scorch and salt the earth. You could change that.”

“Since when did you become so concerned with helping me better myself? You’ve done nothing but highlight the horrible shit I’m capable of doing. You’re not helpful, you’re _corruptive.”_

He hisses and slams his fist on the table. “In order for me to corrupt you, Axe, you would’ve had to have integrity to start with. I did nothing but pick you up and dust your mangy ass off.”

He is a corrosive blight.

“Don’t you crave change, Hopper? Aren’t you tired of this? Living unseen, unappreciated, and unknown? Aren’t you fed up with being stepped on and stepped over? Life is not a series of tasks you have to accomplish just to prove you aren’t dead.”

I was fine four weeks ago. I was normal – hell, I was average even – and then an asshole sauntered over and slid into my booth. I was pissed about my cold breakfast. I was not looking to become a murderer, or to engage in an ambiguous philosophical debate with one.

“You’re lost,” he says, “and chasing your own goddamn ass because your compass broke the day you killed your mama.” He pauses to let that sink in, and I swear to God I can taste blood. “Now, I asked you what you wanted most at this very moment in time, and out of your limitless options, you chose the very opportunity I’m gifting you right now. Then you turn around, spit in my face, and insult me.” He shakes his head and leans back, his voice about as volatile as I feel. “You’re not at all what I’m looking for, son. You’re too far gone.”

That was unwarranted and unnecessarily brutal even for him, and he knows it. I can’t even breathe. I am not too far gone. I am not wasting away, nor am I incapable of seeing his shameless perspective.

I take a minute before I speak, to avoid spitting in his face again, because I’m not letting him rile me up. “What I wanted was to change the past, which is impossible. What you’re proposing is not a solution.”

“You’re confused, in pain, and divided. You live in chaos, and I’m offering you order. Do you want my help, or are you too goddamn proud for that?”

When I die, my tombstone will read: _Here lies a man who now degrades in death with the same haste he degraded in life._

That was really thoughtful of my mind to imagine a stone actually marking my shallow grave.

“Overcome your _self-_ hatred,” he says, dropping his spent smoke onto his plate. “Learn to control yourself, owe nothing to anyone – not even God – and take responsibility for your own life. You _can_ heal, Hopper, and you will find your way out of the woods.”

“Is the Big Bad Wolf leading the way, or are you the Pied Piper now? More importantly, am I a child to you, or just your experimental rat? What is it that makes you feel like you’re the ultimate authority on me and my life? I tell you I regret things – I regret mistakes I made over fifteen years ago – and you just swoop in like Superman to save the day?”

“Are you broken?”

“I’m in pieces. But how does more chaos gather them back up? You don’t throw a broken window into a tornado and expect it to come out fixed.”

“What I’m proposing is not more chaos. I’m proposing that you find an equilibrium. The method to get there can be chaotic, but when it’s all said and done, you’ll feel nothing but peace. You’re not smashing a broken window, son, you’re replacing the glass with tin – stronger, more resilient, unbreakable.”

“A tin window feels like the makings of a prison, Wild. Are you suggesting I build more prisons?”

He slowly shakes his head and uses his lips to pull a smoke from his pack, lighting it before his red eyes drill into mine. “Seclusion and abandonment have long been considered the most grievous of punishments, Axeman; you know better than anyone. To be banished with your own thoughts – no rules or society to contend with – is not considered a _pleasure;_ it’s _torture._ You’ve recognized that bullshit since the day you were born. You cherish your solitude with good reason. Society says free thinking causes discomfort, but you and I both know that’s a goddamn lie. Now, a tin window divides you from that method of thinking, absolutely, but what makes you believe you’re on the _inside_ of the house?”

I click my tongue, biding time. I need silence to formulate my reasoning. My head’s cloudy and I’m thirsty, and you can’t expect a man to find loopholes and fallacies when he’s naked, feathered, and under duress.

We can’t just pick names from a hat and go on a spree. This is lunacy. We are men, not Gods.

“If I’m not trapped on the inside, then who is?” I wonder.

“The only _man_ and his flock worthy of such a fine cage.”

I huff and shake my head, and then realize my fingers are dog-earing the corner of a manilla card that reads _The Muskrat._

“Black and white, Wild, what is your proposition?”

He reaches over the table and spins the Rolodex. “I’m proposing _three:_ three cards, three _bad guys,_ three opportunities to restore your balance.” He then leans on his elbows, lacing his fingers together, and stares at me again, studying the twitch of my curled lip, the clench of my sore jaw, and the erratic throb at my temple. “You choose the filth, Hopper, and I’ll help you clean house.”

His eyes glow and he smiles, but all I see are his sharp grinning teeth and his smoke floating over our empty plates.

“You want me to pick three men to slaughter?”

“Not men,” he corrects, _“pigs.”_

“A sounder of three,” I say.

He nods and pulls my plate away, replacing it with the Rolodex. “Take your time, son. Read each one. Get a feel for it. Listen to that seductive voice inside your head and cast your best judgment. When you’ve got three, we’ll continue this discussion.”

Then he stands and stacks the dishes without another word before he trudges out the door, leaving me alone with a deck of miscreants to sift through.  

This is impossible. How could I do this? I can’t just randomly pick who lives and who dies based on numbers and chicken scratch. Half of the damn nicknames make no sense.

 _The green Diamond?_ Is the cretin’s name _Diamond?_ Why is _green_ not capitalized? Was Mr. Moonlighting just an idiot and trying to describe an emerald?

Wild’s nickname was _Nigel;_ that means nothing to me. There are no indicators of good versus evil on any of these cards. There cannot be darkness within a person without some light, and who am I to say what constitutes too much or too little of either?

What if _green_ means the Diamond’s young or inexperienced?! I can’t kill another kid. What Wild is expecting of me is unconscionable. It’s unreasonable. It’s immoral.

But on the other hand … if one is to assume that these nicknames refer to society’s _dregs_ – as Wild so eloquently put it – a younger psycho might be a more just option.

A young dreg would have more time to kill over his lifetime of depravity. Someone could potentially save _more_ people if he chose to wipe from the earth a villain with less experience. And what if a younger dreg grows up to pass on his nasty traits to his children? Someone could stop that.

But why call him a _diamond?_ Is he hardened? Maybe he’s not a kid at all. Maybe he’s one of the worst. Or maybe he’s a diamond in the rough – maybe he’s the only good one in this mess. Or maybe he’s a goddamn jewel thief. But why would a jewel thief need a butcher? For all I know, Mr. Moonlighting called him a _green diamond_ because he has pretty green eyes! I have no way of knowing!

So now between my fingers I don’t just hold the life of a common criminal, but rather an inexperienced, yet somehow hardened, cannibal jewel thief with eyes a man could get lost in. Bullshit.

I flick the card and it flutters through the air until it lands upside down by the hearth.

How the hell does someone just pick a name? It’s not that easy. These creatures have stories. They have reasons. They have pasts that made them what they are. They didn’t just _happen._ No one just _happens._

But then again, does a cretin’s story matter?

Does their past explain their future, and should we care? Should their _bad_ stories concern the _good_ people?

Does it matter how or why the darkness formed inside these beings? Or is the fact that it exists at all good enough to bring the hammer down on these assholes?

It has to matter.

It has to matter, because the world _isn’t_ black and white. You can’t simply claim that this _particular_ fucker is too rude to be allowed to roam this earth.

We are born to judge. It saves our skins.

We become the juries of our peers when we break society’s and God’s laws.

But we are not executioners by any right ... though hypocrisy obviously abounds.

I arrange the three loose cards into a column on the table. _Multiple Miggs, Truckee River,_ and the dog-eared card of _The Muskrat_ stare up at me. The Truckee River is in Reno. Wild hates the cops in Reno for some reason, so I flick that card to the fireplace and immediately replace it with a _Buffalo Bill._

Now, Buffalo Bill might be of note, because this one could be a wannabe cowboy. Maybe he herds men to their death … or maybe Mr. Moonlighting simply noted his handlebar mustache. Should I make a judgment call based on a man’s facial hair?

But then again, what if this bad guy likes to scalp his victims like Cody himself? Either way, I don’t like this one. Buffalo Bill sounds like bad news, and I’m not in the market to get scalped or duel at dawn, so I flick his card into the growing pile on the floor.

Out pops _Shrooms._ I’m not dealing with hippies either, so I toss it away.

There has to be an easier way to do this. I need more information; I can’t just get a _feeling_ like he claims. There is no _feeling_ to be had here. These are cards, and I don’t read cards like he does. I read people. I read yellowing eyes and the backs of wrinkled hands. I read tones of voice and shitty posture. All I’m doing is throwing trash on the floor. I’m not feeling.

Does Wild mean snap judgements? Those aren’t _feelings;_ they’re speculative first impressions, and as someone who makes the worst first impressions on earth, I know how bogus they are.

“This woman just _looks_ like a bimbo,” you think to yourself, but she might just be young and trying to fit in with her slutty friends. “This man’s voice screams _I’m an asshole,”_ but he’s probably had a really shitty week, working overtime for a family that doesn’t appreciate him. Or, “Look at what that hippie's wearing. He’s got to be a dumbass.” I guess it might work sometimes … Bell-bottoms look stupid on everybody.

I tap two fingers between _Multiple Miggs_ and _The Muskrat._ The name _Multiple Miggs_ just makes my teeth grate. He sounds like a jackoff or a violent maniac who can’t decide on one personality. Either way, I’m already losing patience with him, so I toss the card. There. I felt something. Done.

 _The Muskrat’s_ still staring up at me. I get no feeling from this card, but the image of a weasley little rat pops into my head. It has sharp teeth and a biting tongue and it slithers like a snake over the riverbank. I’ve never been a fan of snakes. I don’t fear them, I just irrationally hate them. I was working in my basement once when a snake skin dragged across my face from the ducting over my head. It made my stomach churn and skin crawl. I tried to push that itching slither out of my mind and not imagine myself covered in scaly paper, but I couldn’t. I got up in the middle of the night and tore everything apart looking for it. When I found it, still trying and failing to molt, it was just a black rat snake – useful and harmless – but I killed it anyway. I don’t like snakes under my house. Never have.

 _The Muskrat_ stays, so I lean it against the salt shaker. He’s a rat and a snake, and he leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. This one definitely _feels_ right.

So now I have one ...

Wild left his Zippo and a pack of smokes on the table. I light one and lean back with a wad of cards, flipping through them until I can’t see straight.

I could find one with my birthdate – maybe that could be a sign. Or I could find the name that makes the most nefarious anagram. I have a card that says _One Big Deal._ Did this cretin make a single deal with Mr. Moonlighting, or is he the crowned king of these dregs?

 _One Big Deal …_ ten letters _…_

_a bed legion,_

_a bee doling,_

_a bone glide,_

_albino edge,_

_a bold genie,_

_… a boding eel?_

I do like to fish … but _a boding eel_ isn’t a good sign. I’m not averse to getting my hands dirty, but a boding eel can’t be easy to catch – too slippery. _Fuck eels,_ I say, and I throw the card to the floor.

When I get to _The Music Man,_ though, I stop. This gives me a rush. I hear a symphony in my head, a plucky arrangement that begins cheerful and robust, but suddenly blurs into the slurred growl of cellos. I hear a swarm of bees. I see violas and violins. I watch horsehair jerking and rubbing against strings ... catgut strings.

Catgut.

Wild was wrong about Mr. Moonlighting.

He wasn’t making sutures out there. He was helping _The Music Man_ find the perfect pitch, and for some reason, that makes me bristle. Murder for music. Slaughter for songs. What kind of creature would value art over life?

I lean the card against the pepper. I feel good about that one, too, and it leaves only one more to go.

 _The Warden_ is next. Now we’re talking. My warden was a cocky son of a bitch who took advantage of patients and caused more harm than good.

Way back when, after I’d been diagnosed as someone with a dim light still shining upstairs, I was allowed to roam the halls of Spring Grove Asylum. I’d sit on the floor in the corner of what was called the men’s parlor with a book tucked down my white cotton pants. I was still on the occasional drug, drooling and pawing at windows like everybody else, but when they wore off no one really paid me any mind when I pretended to read. I’d imagine myself hunkered down on a train platform, watching people as they hurried to work or blathered to strangers about their opinion of the war. Since most of the other patients just argued, smelled like piss, and begged for change, it didn’t take that much imagination.

There was a blonde woman they named Dixie. I never knew her real name because no one was allowed to call her by it. She was from Tennessee and had this sweet southern drawl that made my cheeks hot when I’d hear her talking. They called her a screamer though, because apparently that’s what she did. They said she’d fight and shriek if anyone laid a finger on her, so everyone gave her a wide berth.

There was a corridor connecting the men’s half of the asylum to the women’s, and she’d stand outside the door of the women’s parlor, hands folded over her grey dress, and wait to cordially invite you inside for tea.

The warden ordered her around and refused to let the orderlies follow her whims. No one was supposed to speak to her, but I was young and stupid, so I did. I’d wander over the hall and tell her good morning, and like a parrot, she’d say the same thing every day, “Would ya like to join me for tea, young man? It’s a lovely day, and I have lovely tea. Your mama must be so proud of you because you are such a handsome boy.”

She was out of her mind, obviously, but I joined her for tea anyway, which was just water in coffee mugs. We’d talk about stupid shit like how many _ladybirds_ were outside her window that morning, and how much she loved watching horses race. She was raised to be a lady, she said; had a beautiful wedding with a dress that was white for a reason. It took me months to figure out why she was there, and why no one ever looked at her. She’d walk up and down the corridor with me, just rambling on about English royalty and how I was as sweet as a prince. One time – because I was foolish and lonely and probably still drugged up – I took her hand as we walked. She beamed and swung it like we were kids. She laughed and skipped and kissed my cheek. She didn’t flinch, she didn’t cry, and she sure as hell didn’t scream.

We snuck around after that. We played hide and seek in closets and in the laundry room. We were separated for a bit for making trouble, but when she’d come out of treatment, she’d always find me with her dull grey eyes and dumb damn grin and tell me that the doctor said it was almost time for her to go home, and that she’d put in a good word for me.

Then one night after dinner, while I was showing her my books, she showed me her scar – a big red gash down her stomach. It was where her prince had died. It was where her prince withered while she folded bibs and diapers, completely unaware of what had happened to him. It was where the pain had started and from where her sickness leeched.

When her blood was poisoned by her own child, they finally told her – but not the truth. They told her it was almost time to meet her precious baby. They got her excited, but she was too weak to push him out, so they took his shriveled corpse with a knife.

It was her husband’s brilliant idea not to tell her that the child had died months before. It was her husband’s asinine decision to spare his wife all the “mental anguish”. Then afterward, when she couldn’t handle the morbid thought that she’d carried and sung to her dead baby for months, she lost it. With _it_ went everything. Her husband’s brilliant plan had failed, and since he didn’t want that failure soiling his good name, he locked her up, threw away the key, and ordered his underlings not to acknowledge her existence.

He was my warden. He was not a dreg. He was a well-respected man with shiny shoes and degrees on the wall. He was an author, a doctor, and a contributing member of Baltimore’s elite. He butchered his wife and locked her away like a nasty little secret, and society patted him on the back for it.

A thin orange line radiates from the _r_ in _Warden,_ and before I pull back my hand, my cigarette pokes through the card that smolders for second before it dies. It now reads: _The W—en_ with a big hole in the middle.

I peek through the char-rimmed hole and see that it frames the stone fireplace littered with discarded pigs.

I’m not an impractical son of a bitch – and I don’t think I’m as impulsive as Wild claims – but when I start building a fire even though it’s mid-morning on a sunny August day in Colorado, I briefly stop and assess my sanity.

Nope. Can’t find it. But then again, I’m not really looking all that hard.

I want to burn them all. I want to set them all on fire and have a goddamn pig roast.

I use _The Wen_ to get it started, and when the bloody kindling catches, I throw a handful of cards on the fire.

I want them to squeal. I want to hear the bastards cry in pain, and I want those cries muffled as they shriek. I want all hope lost for these sick fucks and I want to laugh while I watch them give up.

I want to wrap my hands around throats and lock my gaze on bulging eyes and white tongues. I want noses to bloody and teeth to rattle in their mouths. I want skulls cracked and fingers snapped, skin flayed and hearts torn from empty chests. I want these pigs to pay for their sins in the worst possible way.

I grab the Rolodex and shake it into the fireplace. Cards flutter and settle, blooming into a ball of hellfire that warms my flesh in a way that’s so comforting I want to revel in it, so I do. I sit back on the wadded blankets, toss more random pigs into the flames, and relax as my mind clears.

This is good.

They’re burning now.

No more decisions, no more darkness.

They are not shadows, or demons, or devils. They aren’t dregs or pieces of shit. They are nothing but heat and light now. With my own hand, they've transformed from beastly to beautiful.

A voice clears and I jump, the Rolodex crashing to the floor.

“A funeral pyre?” he wonders.

I turn to see Wild standing in the darkened doorway, axe still in hand.

“I may have gotten frustrated,” I admit.

“I can see that. Did you find your three little pigs?”

“I found straw and sticks. No bricks though, so I burned the house down.”

He points at the Rolodex with his axe, and I look down. Two cards still cling to it, hanging on for dear life. I’m tempted to look at them, but he gestures for me to hand them over quickly before I do.

He reads them carefully to himself, sighing and nodding like they are the most profound words he’s ever witnessed. “One of these is your brick house, then. Lucky you. Better bring a wrecking ball.” Lucky me. “How do you want to pick?”

I’ve had enough picking for today. “You do it.”

He shakes his head, reaching into his pocket, and I already know where this is going. “If you won’t decide, then we’ll let Marianne.”

She’s got to be better at this than I am, so I agree. Wild leans the axe against the wall, placing one card on the mantel and one on the floor by my feet. “Poor girl gets the floor,” he says, “and the cock gets the mantel.”

He’s smiling as he twirls the coin over his fingers, waiting for me to agree to his impromptu terms. This is no way to settle this, but I’m at a loss for better ideas. My roulette wheel burst into flames a few weeks ago, so fuck if I even care anymore, but I am a little curious. “Do you plan to just whip that thing out whenever my brain gets fried?”

He tosses it into the air and catches it like a cheap swindler. “She’s a useful tool, Axe. No matter the question, she always has an answer.”

Standing there with a beam of light bathing half his face while he methodically flicks and catches his coin, he reminds me of someone or something with the same devious smile and attitude. “I think _Wild’s_ getting old,” I say. “Pick your new name: _Harvey Dent_ or _Two-face."_

He looks like his mouth just filled with vomit. “What kind of names are those?”

“Butcher, Looter, _Acid Mouth_ … those are names _you_ picked, and you don’t see your resemblance to Two-face? You have a lucky coin, for God’s sake.”

He grimaces again and shakes his head like I’m speaking nonsense. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, son.”

No idea? Really? Harvey Dent was introduced in Detective Comics #66. How does he not know this? I was nine and poured through every comic I could find. “What kind of barbaric world did you grow up in where you had no comic books?”

“I’ve never been interested in childish drivel.”

“Childish drivel?! And what, dare I ask, were you reading when you were nine?”

He shrugs, and then looks at the ceiling as though it’ll be written up there in big neon letters. _“Euclidis Elementa ... Treatise on Light,”_ he finally says with a satisfied nod.

What the hell are those? “Wait, the math books in the truck?”

He scoffs like I just insulted his mother. “They're not _math books.”_

“Just how old are you?” This shit’s getting weird.

He stares at me like I just asked for a detailed report of the length and girth of his cock, like I don’t already know. “Getting a little personal, don’t you think, Axe?”

“Your _age_ is too personal? I was inspecting your colon twelve hours ago. I’m thirty-seven, by the way.”

“Stop sharing,” he snaps. “And you can call me whatever you want, I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

“You bitched about _Butcher,_ and that was one you called yourself! And by the way, I’m a Capricorn. I actually do enjoy long walks on the beach – at low tide, though – and I share a birthday with Edgar Allan Poe.” I love it when he huffs and grits his teeth; the disgust on his face makes me feel alive. “I was under the impression that you loved the sound of my enchanting voice. I guess that’s an _untruth.”_

“So you were born January 19th, 1937?” he asks.

“How in the hell did you know that?”

 _“Math,”_ he snaps. “Call me _Harvey,_ then, or _Dent. Butcher_ even; I don’t care, just stop talking about yourself.”

“No. No Dent. No Butcher. I’m going with _Two-face._ And you want to know why? Because you just picked Harvey.”

“You’re a little shit, you know that?”

“Just toss the goddamn coin!”

He flicks the coin, and I watch it twist and spin and find myself wishing for one outcome over the other. Why? I don’t know what’s written on either card. One could lead to the lap of luxury and the other to certain death.

The heavy coin smacks the floor and rolls, and rolls, and rolls – and as we scan the projected course, we both see the crack in the floorboards. He’s not going to lose his precious coin, and I’m not letting him affect the outcome, so we both pounce.

I land hard on my naked belly, protecting the coin and the sanctity of its decision, swatting at Dr. Dent whose only concern is losing the damn thing.

When I hear it tap the floor, I ease open my hands and we peek inside. Marianne winks at us, and I toss the coin back to Two-face. “So where are we headed?”

He seems pleased all the sudden and crawls across the floor, flipping over the card with a relieved sigh. “The Land of Ten Thousand Lakes,” he snickers.

Minnesota? Is he actually happy about that? Who wants to go to Minnesota? Good fishing in Minnesota, though. Maybe it’s not such a bad place to go hunting either, but I’m still curious about the other card. “Where’s the cock point us?”

“Doesn’t matter now,” he chuckles. I can see his whole body relaxing, and he crawls back to me, taking my mouth with a kiss that makes me wonder if he’s not unzipping his jeans. He pulls away to breathe and chews on my neck and ear until his hunger slowly passes. Mine, however, is just getting started.

He then pockets the coin, a smile still plastered on his face. “In four weeks we roll out. And then we’ll take care of this little problem of yours.”

“And what’s that problem?” I ask.

“This very inconvenient compassion.”

He pecks my cheek and hops up just as Garm crashes into the cabin with a pair of rabbits crushed in her jaw. Her tail is going nuts, whacking the door frame as she bounces, dripping blood all over the floor. Dent laughs and scratches her ears, and under normal circumstances, I’d get dressed and join in the revelry, but my mind is suddenly elsewhere.  

I should just burn the card on the mantel since there’s no reason to look at it, but I can’t help myself. I stand and flip it over, feeling the immediate rush of why he didn’t want to end up with this one. He’s as disinterested in going back there as I am.

I hesitate as I let the heat coursing up my spine dissipate before tossing the card in the fire and watch as the flame catches and spreads across it. Three dregs are about to meet their maker all because of a couple nicknames and a coin toss, but not this bastard. I hope this sicko plays the goddamn lottery, because The Chesapeake Ripper is one lucky fucking pig.


	29. Mixed Emotions

A thousand miles have rushed under our feet, and we have yet to discuss just how this immoral shit show is supposed to go down. It’s probably my own fault, since I’ve made myself seem complacent over the last several weeks as I’m settling into my new role as best chum to my bite-happy captain. For a while – and I mean a very brief while – we functioned as any good friends would: we woke up, we ate, we shot the shit, we dicked around – another day well spent. But it was the madness tucked within the relative normalcy that began to wear on me. 

Back at the cabin, he spent one afternoon explaining how to properly crack open a ribcage and remove organs without damaging the meat like he was teaching a kid how to fly a kite. _Careful not to tangle anything, and be gentle – don’t yank it._

He kept referring to bones and muscles by their anatomical names, intentionally confusing me. I got a little snippy, and he asked if I wanted a refresher in anatomy. When I agreed, he made me strip off all my clothes again, and I realized just how ridiculous his traps were becoming.

After that lesson, I tried to imagine those ribs belonging to a deer, an elk, or a Siberian tiger, but inevitably I’d start to get queasy. My skin crawled as he traced my naked chest while running his other finger down Mr. Moonlighting’s sternum. It was sick. I felt as dissected as the mangled, headless corpse and ended up wandering around the woods for an hour, pretending that the guy I was about to have dinner with was just a really deep-thinking survivalist.

Then he showed me how he uses the butt of his axe to dislodge leg joints. I feigned composure to get through that lesson as best I could, despite his hand digging into my groin to help me identify individual tendons. It was brutal and grotesque, and the crunching pop that followed the axe swing was enough to put me off meat for a couple of days. He didn’t readily accept my decision, and he called me a greenhorn, though it didn’t really feel like an insult. He agreed to let me live on “potato soup” for a few days.

We both knew there was a lot more than just potatoes in it, but I let him serve it up anyway, and he let me pretend that I had any choice in the matter.

Eventually my wounds healed, and we loaded up our gear and took off down the mountain. It was nice to be back inside the cab with its familiar sights and smells: leather and cigarettes, Garm huffing and puffing behind me, and my box of shit that keeps looking less and less filled everytime I see it. Getting back on the road felt less dangerous to me, and I’d missed sleeping on a mattress, even though the quarters now felt more claustrophobic than ever.

We stopped at restaurants and pretended to be humble, law-abiding long-haulers, and I ignored every road sign pointing toward our destination. As far as I was concerned, Idaho didn’t exist.

We hit the Utah border and reality finally slapped me across the face. We were going to make this murderous pilgrimage, and that thought had my voice running terrified from my chain-smoking lips. I think he’s assuming that my silence over the last two days has meant that I’ve been psyching myself up for whatever the hell happens next, but he would be sorely mistaken.

We pulled into an Albertson’s grocery store, and for the last twenty minutes I’ve been staring at a giant sign for chuck steak. It’s only forty-nine cents a pound – not a bad deal – but we’re hauling meat a bit cheaper than that, if you ignore the ethical implications of how we procured it.  

Janus could live in this excruciating silence forever, and I was under the impression I could too, but I suppose it’s now my turn to be mistaken.

After an hour of painful, nerve-wracking reticence, I finally open my mouth. “Do we have a plan?”  

I’m sure he’s pissed that he has to tell me yet again. I’ve asked, but I get the same or similar responses every time: “We _meet_ the music maker, _kill_ the music maker, then _eat_ the music maker – pretty simple. Forgive me if I don’t break out an easel.”

I don’t need pictures. I need something more detailed than my eventual rap sheet. Do I design this kill to be personal to me, or do I keep my emotions out of it? Should I construct a dramatic monologue to recite over his body like the final scene of an action movie? Should I work on my maniacal laugh? Am I the maniacal one now? I feel like I need to write a laundry list of wrongdoings – serve him papers, so to speak – just so he knows why we’ve come. I’d hate to confuse anyone. 

> _Dear “The Music Man”,_  
> 
>   1. __No matter the assumed quality of sound or artistic significance, the laws of God do not permit you to take the life of another man for the singular purpose of creating more “soulful” or poignantly symbolic musical instruments. They make steel strings now for God’s sake; use them.__
>   2. _The laws of Nature do not permit you to construct elaborate tableaux in which human beings are ritualistically twisted, mutilated, and displayed as some offensive affront to modern art. Leave that shit to Mapplethorpe._
>   3. _You are not permitted to disregard Common Law and continue illegally abusing your fellow men for your sadistic inclinations, which are probably due to your mother or father’s lack of affection, or because you had a particularly abusive piano tutor. It’s time to get over the tragedies of our lives like the rest of us were forced to._
> 

> 
> _If you do not wish to cease the above activities – and my associate and I are under the assumption that you do not wish to do so – we will be forced to act accordingly._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Two concerned citizens and their big black dog_

Do I _need_ a _decease_ -and-desist order? What is the proper protocol when dispatching a serial killer? After the deed’s done, do I anonymously drop off his fingerprint and a list of his crimes at a police station? I’m not really comfortable showing my face to anyone right now, least of all cops.

“So, we just roll on up and invite ourselves in?” I wonder. “Then what? Shoot him and toss him in a pot?”

Janus blows halos of smoke over our heads and clears the impatience that’s been caught in his throat ever since I spent forty-five minute deciding on this morning’s breakfast: plain old flapjacks and coffee. He was pissed.

“Ideally, we don’t resort to guns, but essentially, yes. After it’s all said and done, I plan to treat you to a meal that will leave you begging for mercy.” A smug-ass grin curls across his face, and his eyes twinkle like a kid who just got an honest-to-God pony for his birthday. “We shall dine like kings tonight, Fledge.”

That’s not a plan, and I don’t give a rat’s ass about our dinner date. My eye won’t stop twitching, and I’m sweating like a whore in church. He finally notes my flustered appearance and lights me a smoke to calm down.

Before he can hand it to me, I snatch the cigarette out of his lips and take a long useless drag. “If we don’t use guns, how do we kill him?”

“We improvise. I’ve got my Buck, and you’ve got your … _hands.”_ He scans my sweaty face and shakes his head, dismissing my appearance with a wave of his own cigarette. “But you can’t be like this. Whatever this is, it’s unacceptable.”

No shit. “Nervousness is a normal human reaction when you’re being forced to do something inherently inhuman.”

There’s no body he can rub my face in this time, but that doesn’t stop him from searching the lot for something he can punish me with. He finally gives up, because my erratic behavior and the pile of vomit outside my door have already drawn too much attention.

“I’m not sure I heard you correctly, Fledge. Care to say again, or should we move on?”

“What do you take issue with: how I feel about this barbarism being foisted on me, or me calling you _inhuman?_ I’d have thought you would’ve enjoyed that.” I quickly suck down the last of my cigarette and poke the butt out the cracked window. When I turn back, he’s already lighting me another. He’d better keep them coming.

“I was being attacked,” I say. “I had a reason to kill the shadow and Mr. Moonlighting. This is not the same. This is premeditated, and I don’t know anything about this jackass.”

“It’s only premeditated if we actually plan it,” he says with a smile. “According to you, that problem is already solved.”

That’s not funny.

We’ve been stuck together in the cab of the truck with me silently freaking out since we left the compound. When we first parked here, I hopped out and ran through the lot, making an ass of myself while trying to calm down. I did a lap around the store, went in and bought a Coke, came out, chugged it, then threw it up right outside the truck door – flapjacks and brown foam everywhere. When I hopped back in, Janus was shaking his head and handed me a rag to wipe the splatter off my glasses.

It’s been four weeks – technically twenty-five days – since I axed Mr. Moonlighting. I started keeping track with tallies on the front door of the cabin. Jan said it was the obsessive and neurotic behavior of a prisoner. I didn’t comment; but when I went outside the next morning to add that day’s tally, I found that he’d carved, with long, deep gashes: _He was not a prisoner of fate, but a prisoner of his own mind._

I wasn’t certain who he was referring to, and since I had no intention of mentioning it, I just retaliated by carving underneath it: _There is no heavier burden than a great potential._

He retorted: _Love feels no burden._

My reply, which took almost three hours to slowly chisel: _When no one loves you, you have to pretend everyone loves you._

A couple days passed before he carved right over my marks: _Life's greatest happiness is to be convinced we are loved_.

So I scrawled: _Happiness is a warm puppy,_ and he didn’t respond.

What a pity.

Other than destroying the front door with our argumentative funny-paper philosophies, things were going what some might consider _well._ I had a good solid strategy for putting my goddamn life back together, and I was taking his advice to heart: no more thinking – I’m _done_ with thinking. Who needs logic when you have the piecemealed ideology of a Lithuanian cannibal at your disposal? My conscience can finally go fuck itself like its been fucking me over for three decades.

I’m not anxious anymore.

I’m not nervous.

I’m at total peace now, and that’s all bullshit.

I glance across the parking lot, searching for anything to snap me out of the agony of thinking so I can start preparing myself for the harrowing rampage I’m about to embark on.

Factories pepper the landscape: but not the smoke stack variety, more like the kind that process crops or manufacture auto parts.

“So this is Idaho,” I say. “I thought there’d be more potatoes rolling around …”

“Fledge, do you want to wait another day? You aren’t allowed to claim cold feet and take off as soon as we get there. Don’t be embarrassed to say you need more time.”

I don’t need more time. I’ve had a month, and my feet are toasty warm and tired of running. “I think I’d just feel a little better if I had a few steps to follow, like a map, or an instruction book. We shouldn’t have burned all the albums ...”

“We burned the books to cover our tracks. Since you seem to want instructions to follow, I’m assuming premeditation is back on the menu? Can your rattled little brain handle that, Wee Man?”

Yeah ... I think I’m okay with that.

At this point, I think I have to be.

With my own two hands I will be eliminating a bloodthirsty miscreant from the population. This is how I will redeem myself. This is how I will cope. No more people have to die – except the three – but they aren’t really _people_ anyway. I know I can do this, because I have to. And I have no intention of letting Janus dangle another one of my shameful failures over my head.

I’m twitching again, and when I can’t look him in the eye, he tugs my chin to face him.

“It’s easy; look at me.” My gaze finally meets his, but I hate that he feels the need to probe my eyes every time I’m a little shaken. “We’re the same. You and I trained together; we work together now; we’re a team. You see what I see. You touch what I touch. You step where I step, and we’ll be fine. Are you hearing me?”

Yes, I’m hearing him. I’m three inches from his face. But how is this supposed to work? That’s no plan. That’s a list of half-assed rules. “We’re the same?”

“Two halves of the same coin. We’re going into battle, son, we need to be on the same page.”

The same page? “We haven’t opened the goddamn book, Jan. I don’t even know what the hell you’re reading. Are we even in the same library?! You barely speak English!”

He laughs, but that’s not helping!

“Focus,” he says, but it’s not that easy. “How can I help you relax?”

He cocks a smirk and releases my chin so his hand can slide over my thigh. He’s literally cupping my balls, and I’m going to deck him. I going to choke him. I going to cut off his dick and shove it down his own throat.

“Design a  _plan,_ Janus! That would help me relax, not your cock! And I hate your new name! What are we – the goddamn Brady Bunch?!”

He grumbles and leans away, clearly insulted.

Good.

“It’s better than the nonsensical shit you picked. And all you have to do is watch me; my methods are sound – always have been.”

Is he serious?! Is this how he functions? Is he a magical wizard who not only disobeys man’s law, but also the laws of physics?!

“Okay, hotshot, if I see what you see, what if you miss something, huh? I guess I miss it too. What if you drop something? I drop it too! And we can’t occupy the same goddamn space, you idiot! I am a second human being! I have mass! I can’t be you!” I shove him and he holds up his hands.

He doesn’t understand this. He’s expecting me to flip some goddamn switch, suddenly fine with trotting around with him and cleaning up after our bloody tangents. But I’m not okay with that. I never have been.

While I’m cradling my eyes, I hear his seat creak and hope to God that he drops out of the cab to let me cool off before I say something I’ll regret.

“You’re nervous and afraid,” he says. “That’s okay. I just don’t suffer from those particular afflictions. There’s no need to.”

“Well, I guess you _are_ God, then.”  

“Not God,” he says. “But close enough.”

Jesus Christ. Those logs that’ve been following us for months are nothing compared to the weight of this bastard’s ego. I swear to God he only keeps the truck because he needs it to haul around his brass balls.

I still don’t understand his motivations for doing anything. Why live like this? Life on the road is not glamorous. It’s not exciting. It’s often terrifying and mind-numbingly oppressive. We have no stable floor, no decent bed, no refrigerator, no comforts of any kind except what happens between our blood-stained sheets every night.

Why can’t we use our goddamn names? I’ve got nothing to hide anymore. I understood the anonymity when we were about to part ways – when the cops were on our tail and I could’ve been scooped up and interrogated – but what’s he afraid of now?

Our conversations about the beauty of death, the absurdity of man, and the hypocrisy of God are as beguiling as they are unscrupulous. Sometimes he grills me so ferociously and with such unnerving excitement that I truly believe he feels close to uncovering the meaning of life. Other times he talks circles around me, comparing French composers to Spanish operas, and I just nod like a good boy until he shuts up and blows me.

In those few weeks we spent preparing to leave, I probably put on ten pounds with all the smoked meat and back fat Jan has been poking down my throat. He said the fat’s been mixed with bear grease, and we’ve been shamelessly enjoying the hell out of it – fucking each other’s brains out and eating it by the case. I spent the better part of a day on the porch, oiling his axe and our new arsenal of knives while he stared at me, damn near creaming in his pants the whole time.

I mean, obviously, we talk a lot and touch each other bodies, but that happens mostly in the dark, and one of us typically ends up bleeding. None of that means I’ve learned anything about him. He knows almost every grisly detail of my body and life now, but I can’t even bring up his family for fear that I’ll end up a blubbering mess when he tells me some sob story about his war-ravaged youth.

A couple of days after Marianne and I decided which pigs we were planning to poke, Jan spread his maps across the table so we could pinpoint each sty and form a route. Then he came out of the bathroom with that big stack of bloody books, and we sat by the fire one night sifting through them.

They were old photo albums filled with pictures and articles that only a beast would feel compelled to gather. Mutilated bodies found strung up and skinless, swaying under bridges. Whole families – even the children – tied up and shot before being left to rot at their own fly-infested dinner tables. Gutted men embedded inside trees and decorated with poisonous flowers like a heinous altar to the wicked. It was the worst pageantry of evil you could imagine. Mr. Moonlighting was an avid collector of Satan’s most vile debauchery.

The books gave me a new, more demoralizing perspective of the deviants’ seedy underbellies. I started questioning Janus’ motives and my commitment to this entire charade. My nerves were shot. Every owl outside was suddenly cooing death rattles in my head, every tapping tree branch was a knife handle waiting for my back to turn. I refused to sleep, so I paced the unhallowed compound and sat by the gorge at night, trying to let the breeze coming off the river open my lungs and clear my head; but the solitude was my enemy. The black sky shrouded the remnants of good in this world, and the wind carried nothing but a gut-wrenching appreciation for humanity’s infinite suffering. How could people do these things? How could you care so little about your fellow man that you’d be willing to carve them up just to suit your ungodly whims?

Janus didn’t show his face for those long, draining nights. I didn’t want him to. He let me dissolve at my own pace, having no intention of righting my upturned conscience. He let me spill – down my face and off the cliff – knowing it was only a matter of time before he’d fill me up himself. It was inevitable and I did nothing to stop it.

We scoured those abominations disguised as books until we found The Music Man’s showpiece: a headless body twisted and posed in a bass drum filled with the curdled blood of at least five or so men. The victim had not just been violated and defiled, but his ribcage had been strung up like a lyre as though his life was an insignificant trifle hiding his true purpose.

Janus was enamored with the display, which I found equally abhorrent.

After much-heated debate and more detestable sifting, we agreed that the man had to be from Idaho, hence our current locale in potato country.

The Muskrat was an interesting, though much less morbid read. His pages held mostly domestic incidents and police reports about a farm in Nevada, but I never got the opportunity to continue my investigation since Janus tossed his book on the fire as soon as he confirmed his identity. He said he knew of the pig’s stomping ground already – a familiar haunt for him – and he seemed eerily excited to be able to fulfill a promise he’d made months prior. The Muskrat apparently built his rat’s nest in the sun-scorched desert outside Las Vegas.

The Minnesota Shrike could be found in Minnesota – imagine that; but there wasn’t a lot of information aside from two small articles and a few handwritten notes about missing college girls. There was, however, something about The Shrike’s behavior that caught Jan’s eye. So while he combed through more albums, I was supposed to burn the rest, which I was more than happy to do.

I never figured out The green Diamond. He wasn’t a criminal according to the book: just an arrogant kid with an assload of money who was a purveyor of unusual parties – the kind of party with perverted face masks, dirty code names, and slop buckets – the sort of gathering that might just destroy a celebrity’s reputation if a couple of nosy photographers stumbled in.

In fact, someone had been keeping an eye on him, and that evidence was tucked throughout the book. Highly explicit and very sticky photographs tore at the pages as I turned them. Mr. Moonlighting had his own agenda with The Diamond and I had no interest in learning more about it.

Other than those _well-used_ and annotated pictures and a copy of a police raid, nothing looked out of sorts. I guess it was the kid’s pretty green eyes after all ... or maybe his round and very picturesque ass. If I had to guess, it was probably both.

I had one book in my hand and was about to light it up when I peeked inside the cover just for gruesome kicks. There I saw his name, clear as day: _N-i-g-e-l._ I slowly closed it and set it aside, trying not to draw attention while he was at the table studying the notes on The Shrike by the lantern. There’d been a newspaper protecting the bottom books, so while my nose was buried in a story about our old commander-in-chief’s last day in Dallas, I tucked the album under my shirt, grabbed a flashlight, and excused myself to the outhouse. I felt like a kid sneaking away with my dad’s nudie mags.

Out in the pitch black john, I closed the rickety door and flicked on the flashlight, standing there as I prepared myself. Whatever was inside had to divulge something worthwhile about the bastard – shit I knew he’d never tell me willingly.

I held my breath – for several reasons – and flipped through the album, stopping at his page. Would there be a kill list, disturbing photographs, schizophrenic commentary by Mr. Moonlighting himself? I was prepared for it all and scanned the blank page before coming to a stop at the bottom. In flowery script, next to a disturbingly realistic sketch of my sleeping face, it read: _Better luck next time, Hopper._

I swore so ferociously that I dropped the flashlight, sending it skittering across the outhouse floor just as the door ripped open. Janus stood there in the darkness shaking his head. Then he yanked the book out of my hands and tossed it into the shithole before turning on his heels and heading back inside.

Since he’s never let me go to the shitter in peace, I should have expected that. He watches me like a hawk circling rabbits. He even studies the way I eat – surprise, surprise. When he thinks I’m asleep, he traces my lips and runs his fingers through my hair, like at any moment my heart could stop and I’d immediately turn to dust.

I can feel him sniffing my neck and clothes when he sneaks up behind me. In all honesty, I want to find his infatuation with me creepy, because it is. I want to tell him to stop groping me when we spar in the woods. He turns our matches into dances so he can lead me around, then tackle me when I let my guard down.

 _Always know your enemy’s location,_ he called out.

_Never let him get behind you._

_Keep your face protected._

_Don’t rely on your knife._ Then he shouldered me in the chest, spun me around, grabbed my hair, and kissed me. Of course I dropped my knife; and no, I wasn’t guarding my face, though I should have stabbed his.

When he let go, he kicked me in the mud and called me too horny to stay focused. Apparently the real lesson was to not bother trying to overpower anyone. Instead, find your enemy’s weakness and exploit it.

The next time we trained, I circled him and retold the story of slaughtering my shadow. Pennies dropped from my stained lips and I traced on my body where they fell. My stomach growled with every pulsing gush of wine, and I recounted the bouquet and mouth-feel of my very first sip. I recalled the cicadas humming through the woods and the huffing moans of my own panting breath as I stared down at the body growing cold between my thighs.

Then I rushed him, kneed him in the gut, and cracked the back of his skull with a rock – because someone wasn’t paying attention. He said exploit weaknesses, and that’s what I did. Somebody was too horny to stay focused.

It isn’t just his obsession with manhandling me or strengthening my resolve. He enjoys it when I look or feel vulnerable. He insists on watching me complete personal tasks, like washing my hands and feet, shaving my beard, or tending to the cuts all over my skin. He likes it when I lean on him when I take a leak, or shiver so he can wrap a blanket around me. When I let him touch me at night, he waits until I’m right on the edge of total relaxation to start questioning me on my knowledge of Italian poetry, like it’s supposed to help me think clearer. I shouldn’t have to tell him that reminding someone which layer of hell they’ll end up in does nothing but nullify their pleasure.

However, because I’m lonely and a complete piece of shit, after a couple weeks I found myself enjoying his obsessive attention. I started expecting hot food that I no longer questioned, but rather fawned over. I started letting him hold me at night when I’d startle awake, tear-streaked for some nightmarish reason. I let him ogle my half-naked body while I cooked over an open fire and allowed him to feed me my dinner, only to watch his eyes glaze over and the spoon drop so he could stroke my face instead.

I am aware that his fascination with me is unfounded, and that my enjoyment of it is equally fucked up. I am a nobody. I’m a twitchy, scrawny, useless bastard who hitched his horse to a job he learned to hate, then to a woman who grew to hate him just as much. There is no magical insight in my brain. There is no amazing perspective for him or me to gain. I’m not well-educated, I’m an unpleasant conversationalist, and we’ve established that I am a terrible lay. What the hell he wants with me is still the $64,000 question.

Though he insists otherwise, I feel kidnapped from my own life. My world is being pilfered right out of my hands, and it’s like I’m watching him dim the lights with an oblivious smile on my face. I’m not wondering what his plans are for me when the lights go out. I’m wondering how he will recognize me in that darkness.

No matter what he claims or how he acts, he is still a thief. He calls himself _opportunistic,_ but his charm steals more than just the glances of waitresses. His wit and ingenuity steal the spotlight wherever we go, and he literally stole my dad’s motorcycle, tying and tarping it to the back of the goddamn truck. We had words about that particular offense. He said that since my dad was dead, _technically_ it was my bike now, and he was making sure I didn’t lose it. I called foul, and he ignored me like always.

The only reason I bring it up is because he spent the last two days riding it around while scoping out whatever small town this is on the outskirts of Boise. I stayed parked on the side of the road with Garm, which was fine by me, and got some much-needed rest without him poking and prodding me. By the end of the second day, he was practically giddy, his hands all over me again, because he’d found The Music Man’s huge suburban house. He snagged his address, we parked behind the grocery store closest to his neighborhood, and set in motion the nonexistent plan we are now currently designing.  

“First order of business,” I say. “Entry to the house.”

“I’m partial to doors.”

_Janus is partial to doors._

I really don’t want to deal with his body after I stab him over his blatant antagonism. But if I take a twenty-minute break, I could dig a hole in the dumpster behind the store so when I _do_ cut his obnoxious throat, I can toss him in the trash and fly off into the sunset, happy as a goddamn lark. “I guess we just invite ourselves in then? Seems a little rude.”

“We’ll say we’re selling storm doors or bathtubs; who cares? Once the door’s open, fair game.”

 _“He_ might care … just a thought. And we’re dressed like Old Macdonald and his big ugly wife. We don’t have a storm door, Jan, or a catalog. And you better not tell me there’s a tub in this truck, or I’m going to be pissed.”

“Insignificant details. It won’t matter in the end. But you are definitely the wife, just to clarify.” He smiles and pokes my chest. “Be aware that once we’re inside, you’re taking the lead, do you understand? This is your kill, not mine. I’m not holding your hand.”

My kill?

_Not his._

What would he do if I stopped this whole thing right now?

“And by lead, you mean you want _me_ to jump him? Just like that? Shoot him, stab him, chop off his head?”

“Leave as little mess as possible. And I said avoid your gun; it’s a small neighborhood.” He eyes me for a second, sizing up his ability to trust me. He can’t, and we both know it. He shoves me forward and reaches down the back of my pants, stealing my father’s gun for the second time, tosses it in the glovebox, and continues, “Leave the head attached. I have a plan for the body.”

I bet _that’s_ a wonderful plan. Can’t wait to hear it.

My scoff makes him pause. “You need to allow your mind to rest,” he says. “Clear your thoughts of the negativity holding you hostage. Tell me what’s fueling your hesitation, and I can help.”

 _He can help,_ he says.

It’s easy for Janus to sugarcoat shit. _This is simple,_ he tells me. _Follow my lead. This is just. This is right, and I know what I’m doing._ He can make this situation sweet and sparkly – so much more palatable for me when he prys open my mouth. But what isn’t easy is what comes next. I have to take a big bite of that sugar-coated shit and swallow it.

What’s making me hesitate? Everything.

What if The Music Man’s expecting our little visit? Jan’s lack of nerve makes him a little less than subtle. For all I know, the two had dinner last night.

What if the pig’s not even home when we arrive? Do we come back later? How much later? As it stands, the anticipation is already eating away at me.

The sun seethes overhead, and I’m wondering why we’re doing this during the day. Isn’t that unnecessarily dangerous, even by Jan’s standards?

What if the pig recognizes me? It’s not like my face isn’t tacked up in every shop window in the tristate area.

And my final worry – the one that still keeps me up at night: what if this is all a trap? Jan was a little too excited when he discovered that I’d picked this pig, and he spent days studying the articles about the mysterious Opera House Killer. What if they know each other? This is exactly like meeting Colorado Guy all over again. I could be willingly walking into another trap.

Do I know enough about Janus to trust him with my life? He tells me not to think – to clear my mind of such negative thoughts – but isn’t that a rather convenient way to blind me? If he can convince me to stop trusting myself, that puts him in quite a position of control.

“Fledge.”

My head snaps up, and though he’s wary of my silence, there is still optimism in his eyes as he continues, “When the conscious mind meets the unconscious need, when good aligns with evil, when the earthly forces and the spiritual world synchronize, a noble soul is no longer divided. Remember why you’re doing this, and that will give you strength.”

Those flowery words of encouragement are a band-aid to my woes, but he’s right to remind me why we’re here. This is my purpose, whether he intends to trick me or not. If it’s the end of my line, so be it.

I grab my bag, rip open my door, and we finally ditch the truck behind the store. He keeps telling me it’ll be fine – that I’ll get into the swing of things once we get there – but this all feels too sudden to me. There is a pressure building in my head, making me forget stupid shit like how to walk, because I’m trying to remember how to get out of a choke-hold, while Jan’s blathering on about staying calm and _feeding off the moment_ – whatever the hell that means.

We cut through yards and hop fences, slinking into the neighborhood like a couple of burglars: one well-dressed boss and the other obviously a yes man. My clothes are nothing but translucent plaid rags at this point, and my jeans are frayed and covered in fatty slicks from me wiping my hands on them every damn night. I am not an unkempt man under normal circumstances. I try to hide my inner turmoil with a tucked-in shirt and a clean pair of jeans, but since I met God’s meat man, all that’s gone to shit.

Now Janus looks as dapper as ever in his blood-red shirt and black leather belt, like the bastard’s off to church, which I guess isn’t that far from the truth. Three of us are about to gather in The Music Man’s chapel. I suppose Jan’s expecting God to pop in for the show. I wouldn’t be surprised if the bastard stayed for dinner after, too.

With every gut-wrenching step closer to the house, my satchel clanks and bounces against my thigh, a nice musical reminder that all this is my new reality. I brought it because I feel naked going in there with nothing by my hands as weapons. My switchblade is in my pocket of course, but I’ve never gone after someone who wasn’t temporarily incapacitated and sprawled out on the ground. I have no idea why I wanted to bring all this shit, but I now have one of Mr. Moonlighting’s fillet knives, a coil of catgut, and _Sirens_ at my hip like I’m about to spend a lazy Sunday with my murderous husband out by the lake.

The illogical is welcome now, and it doesn’t even need to wipe its feet anymore. Dirt and grime, shits and giggles, time and space are meaningless. Every time I look over at Jan, I feel like I’m seeing a different person. When he’s smirking at nothing he looks like a sweet old man who has stories about his army buddies getting caught with trannies in Thailand. I glance away and then back to find his smoke-filled eyes scrutinizing our surroundings while he tongues his cigarette, and I’m reminded that the devil still lurks in his details. I collect myself again and when I turn back, he winks, and I want to throw him down and fuck him right here in some asshole’s backyard.

When we stumble out of the bushes, he points out the house far up the tree-lined sidewalk. It’s a nice looking place on a quiet street – an old two-story brick number. Next to the ominous front door is a picture window covered by a big bush that’s been buzzed at the top like the head of a military man. The house looks nice though, like the home of a retired cop and his wife, not really the den of a sicko like I was expecting. I guess I was hoping to find him in the basement of a whorehouse, but this guy has money, which makes me see at him less as a cretin and more like an abuser of poor souls – a warden, not a dreg.

There are a couple of abandoned bikes in the yard across the street. He’s made himself a pretty little sheep suit to hide among the lambs. I wonder if it was his suit that Jan found so intriguing. Maybe they don’t just share a butcher, but a tailor as well.

The quiet street feels deserted though it’s mid-day.

About thirty yards away from the wrought-iron fence separating us from the killer, the angry sun still at our backs, Jan stops and grabs my arm. “You can train and talk yourself into this; you can pretend to know what this is going to feel like, but if you need more time, Fledge, I will give it in spades. There is no shame in delaying a fight to gain the upper hand, but you have to ask for it right now. I cannot give you time to think once that door has been opened. So I will ask you again: are you ready for this?”

So now he’s worried. Suddenly he’s noticing my shaking hands and sweat-soaked hair. When his ass is on the line, his eyes are finally wide open, and I wonder what he sees.

What kind of question is that anyway? I could have a million years and never be ready for this. Does he even understand what he’s asking?

I’m not crazy. I’m not cruel.

I’m not a violent hoodlum hoping to rough up some old lady for a couple of bucks.

I’m not a lunatic on the warpath, looking for my next victim to slay for fun.

I’m not a psychopath who gets his jollies from watching life drain from some unlucky bastard’s eyes. That’s not me. I am not the villain here. And while I know I’m not the hero, I must have some value to some victim somewhere.

Within the ivy-covered house just down the street lives something akin to a man. He may have been a person at one point, and there is no doubt that many still believe that’s what he is right now. They may see him as ethical, moral, perhaps even polite, but that facade is what I am looking past; that barrier is what I am stepping through. I am useless on this side of it – watching these creatures flourish as they prey on innocent wretches just trying to live their lives in peace.

I have watched babies die and children scream and mothers weep into their hands, and I have done nothing. I can’t save the ones I already let die, and I cannot live any longer knowing that I am failing every victim who these sick sons of bitches take from this earth when I know their killer’s names.

I may not know what I’m _expected_ to do, only that I have to do something. In my head, I see the door slowly open. I see The Music Man, tall with brown hair, brown eyes, medium build – able to slip in and out of society undetected. I hear him ask who we are. I watch Jan’s hand refuse to the let the door slam in our faces. I see myself slip inside. I hear protests and shouting. _Get out! What are you doing?!_ I hear muffled pleas and feet running to a back door. I feel warm fabric in my hands and my muscles tighten. I yank, and his body slams into my chest. My knife clicks, my mind clicks, and with a warm gush, it’s over.

A sharp voice snaps in my ear. “Put it away.”

My eyes clear and I look down at my knife, cradled across the red scar running down my palm. I close it quickly and pocket it again.

Now he’s really worried, and he probably should be. He steps in front of me, stopping my feet and cutting off my view of the house. “I’ll ask again, and this is it: are you ready for this?”

I feel stronger; I do.

I feel the pull of excitement in my bouncing feet.

My joints are loose and my cuts are healed. No more bandages hide the slices and stabs from shadows and beasts. My stitches are gone and my belly’s full. I am aching to put an end to this, but I can’t stop my own unwanted thoughts from giving me pause.

“My body is ready …” I say. My mind, no so much.

He hears my hesitation, and I can see him questioning everything – our last two months flipping through his brain like a film reel about to burst into flames. Did we talk enough? Did we train enough? Did he properly convey the importance of keeping my back guarded? Did he steady my trigger finger enough to make it count? Did he drill it into me to keep both eyes open always? Did he teach me how to hear around corners? How to ignore the chaff and zero in on the target? Did he _convince_ me to do this, or am I going in on my own terms?

He wants to trust me. He needs to. He wants me to be ready for this. He wants me to want this just as badly as he does, and when his head barely nods – a lie he’s telling himself – he says, “Good enough.”

He turns, and we head through the iron gate and up the cracked walkway until we come to a stop and stare down a brass pineapple. _Welcome, friends._

My hand raises, hovering over the door. Should I use the knocker, or are my knuckles good enough? It’s the last thing this guy might hear. Does that matter? What matters anymore?

I’m not supposed to be thinking.

Jan’s biting his lip and staring at my fist as though my knock is about to recite sweet poetry. There is no going back after this. If I draw the pig to the door, I’m going to have to kill it, whether I want to or not.

My knuckles have barely rapped against the door when it rushes from my hand and I gasp like I’ve just been sucker punched.

A stocky, pale, brown-bearded man steps into the doorway. He smiles, brings his hands together, and drops his head in an unexpected bow. He’s wearing some kind of gauzy white shirt with a bright orange scarf and a cheesy grin.

 _“Namaste,_ brothers,” he enthusiastically says, “What can I do you for?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 29 rant](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-29-mixed-emotions/).


	30. Fools Rush In

We didn’t draw a pig to the door, we drew a giant cartoon mouse.

His fingertips are tapping his thighs as he waits for me to say something, and now I’m stuck under his and Jan’s agonizing scrutiny while I decide what nonsense I’m going to try to pass off as truth.

“Good afternoon, fine sir –”

Fine sir? I can’t remember a goddamn thing. What were we selling? Tubs? Doors? Maybe it's a new religion – some sort of progressive movement that frees us all from this pit of despair so we may finally ascend into an otherworldly realm of light and love and forgiveness.

“We’re census takers,” I spit out, and my voice vanishes.

He glances at his watch like its face is embedded with a government calendar. “Is it a census year already? I feel like I just did one of these things.”

I’ve got nothing.

I can’t even look at Jan. This is as far as my brain can function. This is why we needed a solid plan. This was too sudden, and I wasn’t expecting The Music Man to look like a bearded Mickey Mouse dressed like a goddamn swami.

The man looks back up at me, waiting for an explanation, but I guess he decides to come up with his own instead. “Did you two hear about the performance? Because it’s actually a private affair, and I was just about to get the whole thing started.”

What performance? That sounds like a far better cover story than my storm-door-selling census taker spiel.

“We actually _are_ here for the performance,” I say.

“But you just said you were census takers.”

So?

Jan finally pipes up, thank God. “My friend has a very boring and very peculiar sense of humor. An acquaintance divulged this private show and we happened to be in town. We were hoping to have a listen.” His grin is as calm and reassuring as my dripping face is not.

The guy nods and faintly smiles, then leans on the door frame. “I’ll be honest with you,” he says, “I don’t know most of Maestro’s friends, so I apologize for not recognizing you. I don’t really like to spring extra audience members during private shows, but if you’re friends of his, the more the merrier I suppose …”

“We aren’t exactly friends,” says Jan, “more like professional associates.”

“Like from the opera house? You guys don’t really look like musicians, but, hey, I probably don’t look like a _cop_ either.” He snickers and my gut jumps into my throat. “Are you two fans of the Orient?”

Jesus fucking Christ, the swami mouse is a cop and apparently not our intended target. And what the hell is he talking about? Private shows? The Orient?

Jan clears his throat and leans toward the mouse man. God, please don’t let him bite him. “Would you mind if we continued this conversation inside? It’s a tad warm out here.”

The guy quickly stands and fumbles back. “Of course! I’m being rude, rude, _rude._ Come in! I have snacks and drinks if you’d like to cool off!”

Jan waits for me to follow the cop inside, then brings up the tail, closing the door with a thud that feels like a prison door being slammed and welded shut.

We’re ushered into a huge living room lined with walnut bookshelves filled with awards, encyclopedias, and small wooden masks. Bright open windows look out into the empty street, though the view is partially blocked by that militant bush.

I’m trying to stay calm and go through Jan’s checklist. _Learn my environment,_ he drilled into me – _know the layout, look for exits, and locate all the obvious and not-so-obvious weapons._

There’s a doorway into the kitchen – probably an exit in there, too – and a carpeted staircase leading to the upper floor. Dark green couches and leather chairs have been pushed away from the fireplace and a single dining chair has been placed like a throne in front of the hearth. In the far corner sits a piano with a towering palm tree behind it – a pretty fancy sty if I do say so myself.

Judging by the worn oriental rug, garishly framed paintings, and the ostentatious display of exotic instruments cluttering the floor and walls, he has very expensive taste for a pig. The glass coffee table is spread with wooden bowls of breads, crackers, nuts, and sauces, and the cop smiles and waves toward the food which we have no intention of consuming.

“Help yourself to the assortment of appetizers, or as they say in India, _chaat._ I’ll just refill the paneer, here.” He grabs an empty silver platter and scurries into the kitchen for more cheese.

Then I finally see the other monumental issue we’re about to face. Three loud women – also dressed in gauzy shirts – and a man sporting boat shoes in Idaho, are laughing hysterically at some sort of nude African sculpture on a small end table by the couch.

They are oblivious to us, poking at the giant phallus protruding from the tiny man’s crotch and making vulgar motions toward their mouths.

The crude behavior aside, the issue is that this bizarre crowd of tactless grobians was not supposed to be in here. I have no time or patience to come up with a believable story for our sudden and unexpected appearance here, let alone idle chit-chat to remain unsuspicious.

Jan, of course, is unfazed by all the racket. He just scoops up a toothpick and wanders away to scour The Music Man’s bookshelf like it’s a public library.

In strolls a fresh plate of pan-fried cheese cubes stuck with picks, and our chubby host drops it on the table. He grabs two chunks and shuffles over to offer me one, which I guess I have to graciously accept now.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he says.

Janus obnoxiously scoffs from the bookshelf behind the piano. “That’s because he didn’t throw it …”

I extend an arm – I’m not rude, after all. “Fledge,” I say, and the fat cop squeezes our clammy palms together. He immediately bares his teeth, not with a scowl, but rather an embarrassed grimace. He didn’t hear what I said, but he doesn’t have the balls to ask me to repeat myself. I bet he's going to call me Fletch now.

“And how do you know Maestro?” he wonders, but again, he doesn’t wait for a reply. “I met Maestro two years ago. He was always popping in at work to say hello. He’s just a swell guy. So talented, too, as you know. When I realized how many unusual instruments he could play, I just begged and begged, _‘Please do a private show,’_ and he finally caved. Now we have private affairs all the time. I’m such a bad friend.” His grin turns his cheeks an unhealthy shade of red. I hope to God this isn’t how I look to people when I try to make small talk.   

“I’ve never met the man formally,” I think I hear myself say. “I’m only familiar with his more infamous work. We aren’t really ... friendly.”

He cocks his head and studies my eyes for a few too many seconds.

“He’s very likable,” he finally says. “There’s just some quality about him – something exhilarating about being around such raw talent.” His wry smile is unnerving at best. “I’m musically illiterate myself, but Maestro …” He lets out a long, captivated sigh and shakes his head. “He’s a pure, unmitigated genius.”

“Aristotle claimed that there is no great genius without a touch of madness.”

His grin twists into a droll smirk and he huffs a dry, quiet laugh, popping his cheese cube in his mouth. “So you’re familiar with Maestro through the symphony then? What do you play?”

The murderer’s nickname is _The Music Man, The Opera House Killer._ He exudes all things musical, and yet in all of my and Jan’s long-winded discussions about who was the most underrated librettist, and how much disdain he has for Schoenberg’s _'offensive atonal orgies,'_ he never thought to prep me for what to expect when I entered the world behind The Music Man’s suburban facade.

I can’t talk music.

I know nothing about orchestras.

I don’t even know what instrument to pretend to play. Would a drummist say “drums”?

No, they aren’t called drummists ...

Could I be a convincing cellist?

Who’s the guy who just crashes symbols? That looks easy enough to fake, and I don’t see any symbols lying around, waiting to prove me wrong …

Jan finally sidles up. “Fledge isn’t really an acquaintance of your Maestro, but I am somewhat.”

“Oh!” The cop’s whole face brightens, and I’m just glad his attention isn’t on me anymore. “Do you play?”

Suddenly Janus, the hotshot, beams. “In fact, I do. Piano, harpsichord, theremin, among other things.”

Since when?

The mouse is taken aback, much like myself. “A theremin!” he gasps. “I’ve never heard a live performance, only on television … you know … Star Trek …”

Jan huffs as though thoroughly insulted by the mouse’s apparent boobery. “What you hear on that program is not a theremin. It’s the voice of Loulie Jean Norman, the sopranista.”

And now I have a whole host of new questions for him. “You–you watch Star Trek?”

He scoffs. “I don’t watch television.”

“And yet you knew exactly what he was talking about and the singer’s name.”

“It’s not the sound of a theremin and it never was, Fledge. Drop it.”

I don’t really want to drop it, but I will if I have to. This is the first time Jan’s seemed almost somewhat normal to me. We will be discussing this later.

The cop suddenly gestures toward the baby grand in the corner. “If you also play the piano, we’d love to hear you while we wait. Please!”

Of course, the humble and respectful pianist declines with a humble and respectful smile.  “This is your Maestro’s performance,” he insists, like the true gentleman that he is, “I’d hate to steal his spotlight.”

The cop nods, feeding Jan’s bulging ego and continues, “I’d be happy to let Maestro know that one of his friends from the symphony is here, but I don’t recall your name.” He holds out his hand, hopeful for a gracious introduction, but is naturally dismissed once again.

Clearly Jan sees his hand – he’s staring at it – but has no interest in making nice. “Tell your Maestro that he and I use strings from the same abattoir,” he says, “and I look forward to hearing him play.”

The cop hums to himself, and that disconcerting cock to his head returns before he nods happily enough, and turns, trudging up the set of stairs behind him.

I have no idea what the hell just transpired, so Jan leans closer, lowering his voice. “An abattoir is a slaughterhouse,” he explains, “I’m implying that we both use the same butcher to string our chordophones.”

“I know what an _abattoir_ is,” I snap. But I’m only vaguely certain that I know what a chordophone is.

The cop returns a few minutes later, his face flushed and mousy gaze now fixed on Jan, and he calmly suggests we all sit.

While Jan sprawls out in an oversized chair like he owns the place, I drop my satchel to the floor and wedge myself between the arm of the couch and Boat Shoe.

The Shoe’s chatty tongue wastes no time jumping into the unnecessary realm of mindless chatter I’m so desperately trying to avoid.

“Have you heard him play before?” he asks.

I shake my head and beg the Holy Spirit to make it stop before it starts, but I’d forgotten that God abandoned me about thirty-seven years ago on a cold January night.

“Oh, he’s _wonderful!_ Just an absolute gem!” the guy gushes. “He had a performance a few months ago and wowed the whole audience with his sitar. Gorgeous sound. It was, honestly, life-changing.” His eyes lock on mine and suddenly squint as he scans my face like he knows me.

Dear God, please don’t let me be seated next to a traveler. I am _not_ the Butcher of Boulder, man. You do not know me.

When he doesn’t seem to recognize me, his eyes drift down my neck and then my ratty clothes.

I know what he’s thinking.

My jeans are dirt-streaked and my mustache matches the greasy mop I’ve been slowly cultivating over the last few months. I look like a panhandler who’s one bad trip away from slaughtering everyone here in the name of the three-headed demon that’s taken up residence inside my anxiety-stricken chest.

Maybe he’s a bit more perceptive than I think.

To this jackass, I must be quite a sight to behold, since he feels compelled to disregard social norms just to have a good goddamn gawk. But he’s definitely not the only person who’s acted like he’s about to whip out a damn camera at the sight of me.

Waitresses and busboys watch me in restaurants like I’m seconds from robbing the place.

Clerks insist on dragging out transactions with meaningless drivel about rain or Russia when I just want to grab a pack of smokes.

People stop me on the street for directions downtown like I know where the hell I’m even going at any given time.

When I sit up on the couch, I straighten my glasses and push back my hair, still avoiding his eyes. I can tell he’s smiling and it makes me sick, until he glances elsewhere and from the corner of my eye, I watch the color drain from his face.

He quickly turns back to his gaggle of birds, finally getting the goddamn message to drop it. Thank you, Holy Spirit. Apparently you are still hanging around.

I start to relax a bit as the cop rushes to clear the table of food and dishes preparing for the moment when we finally get a glimpse of The Music Man himself.

He slowly descends from upstairs: first a set of polished black shoes, then smooth, gray slacks. He’s unbuttoning his white shirt sleeves as he comes into everyone’s view.

He’s tall and fit – a colored man with short-cropped hair. His gaze darts between Jan and me, and if the old bats weren’t bustling on about how beautiful the sitar by the fireplace is, you could probably hear the bastard’s pulse.

Jan stands and my heart stops. Should I stand, too?  Then he extends his hand, which I find odd considering one doesn’t typically shake a pig’s trotter.

“We’ve never met,” says Jan, “but I am Dr. Johannes Silentio.” The name rolls over his tongue like a sweet wine, and I’m astounded by how easily he dons a new suit.

The Music Man cocks his head but takes Jan’s hand anyway. “Good afternoon, Doctor,” he says. “How did you hear of our little gathering?”

“A happy accident. Please forgive our intrusion. My friend and I are simply curious to hear you play.”

The Music Man clears his throat and nods, turning to the other, more formally invited guests. “I fear I’m experiencing some shoulder discomfort; I’m sure you all understand. Perhaps a single demonstration and then we’ll call it a day?” He grits his teeth. “I apologize if the performance seems inadequate.”

The cop, however, emphatically shakes his head. “It will be absolutely adequate! Stellar, in fact! We all know your time is very important, Maestro. Anything you are willing to do would be fantastic, and I’m sure very well-received!” He encourages the others to clap, which they do, then plops into a chair behind the couch.

I suppose we’re about to be treated to a festive musical number before the proverbial shit hits the fan. This situation couldn’t be more unsettling if we were all dressed as clowns.

The Music Man continues scrutinizing Jan as they each take their seats. Our “Maestro,” as the mickey mouse insists on calling him, lowers himself into the dining chair in front of the fireplace and grabs the violin that I hadn’t noticed leaning against the stones.

“No sitar?” mewls one of the gauzy white women.

He ignores her as he slowly twists the screw at the end of his bow, tightening the long white hairs.

“Not today,” he finally replies, eyes still fixed on Jan. The Shoe and his girls groan like children.

If Jan and the Maestro know one another, it’s not evident, but our presence is clearly making him nervous.

He straightens his back and rests the violin under his chin. He then twists the neck of the instrument, not out from his shoulder as one would expect, but down into his lap, resting his arm on his thigh. I’ve never seen someone hold a violin like that. It looks wrong, or at least awkward, and I’m not sure what to make of it.

He readies the bow and sweeps it across the strings.

Thick exotic vibrations drone through the room, and I watch the captivated guests become listless as their minds and faces become engulfed within the vibrancy of the east Indian sun.

Janus studies the Maestro’s fingers sliding up and down the strings. The notes stretch and bow as they climb higher, then dip low with a groan.

After a few moments, Jan closes his eyes, immersing himself in the warmth of that same sun, no doubt dressed in linen and a brimmed white hat as he wanders down a bustling market street, deciding the fate of the men bumping against him as they hurry past.

 _Never lose sight of the enemy,_ he said to me, and yet there he is: facing a monster with his eyes closed, while half a world away.

The Shoe and his hens are gone too – heads reclined back and faces relaxed as they rock to the chanting in their own minds. I’ve been left trapped within this grandiose suburban theatre, staring into the eyes of a creature playing a Siren’s song.

With a flick of the bow, quick fluttering trills transport the room to a hollowed boat floating down the lazy waters of the Ganges. While they paddle down the river, swaying with the music, my mind would much rather catalog the stage I’m sat upon.

Pictures framing snapshots of ceremonies and musical performances could be broken or lobbed if need be. The fireplace poker that resides by the Maestro’s shiny black shoe could become a quick and dirty lance. The mantel above him holds a wide mirror, tilted toward the room to reflect the light of the window and the image of the front door. His early warning system can’t do its job when an innocent mouse invites in the wrong sort of guest.

The mirror is flanked by two heavy gold candlesticks – a nice bludgeoner if we were playing Clue – and now I wonder what else this house might hide. A ballroom? A conservatory? A library, perhaps?

Buzzing notes mimic insects flitting past our ears, and the melody swirls around the room, invigorating our skin and noses like a warm, peppery breeze.

Janus shifts and gently nods at the change in pace, and I wonder what dusty street he’s dipped down. What hole-in-the-wall did he just duck into as he hides in the shadows of his own Indian sanctuary?

The Maestro watches him as much as he watches me, his eyes focused not on the violin cradled against his chest, but on the strangers who have violated his den.

If he’s faltering as he plays, no one’s the wiser, though who knows what Jan and his extensive musical knowledge might be noticing.

The exotic, stirring music exudes a permeating sense of life and vitality. As I listen, I see brown-skinned, barefoot children laughing and splashing at the river’s edge. I watch mothers and sisters washing colorful fabric that they scrunch and twist around their arms. I’m taken again by more dull hums, and I hear rinse water drip and splash as the villagers howl and sing in a tongue that sounds like it gleefully bubbles from their chests.

But the reality is that I’m watching a murderer lull his audience into a stupor. I’m watching a warden – in a crisp white shirt that hides the zippers and buttons of his person suit – acting the part of a character whose sole purpose is to bring beauty and joy to his audience.

We know nothing about the men and women who shuffle around our offices and city sidewalks. In public, we hide behind ties and fancy watches, high heels, and show-stopping smiles, because our bruises, scars, and sinister thoughts are far too egregious to flaunt.

Boat Shoe is practically tearing up at the performance. Every few seconds he sniffs, and I want to lean over and say, “Don’t cry for this beauty, for it comes from the thieving hands of a beast,” but I don’t. I let him have his moment of unadulterated joy. It’ll be over soon enough as it is.

On that thought, the music comes to a close with a long melodic moan, and the room, heavy and lethargic, lightens as the Maestro returns his violin to the floor next to the fireplace. This particular show’s over, though an encore might seem in order at this point.

The misty-eyed cop stands and begins a round of applause that causes the hens and Boat Shoe to happily rise and join him. Seeing as Jan has remained seated and is barely tapping his open palm, I’m following his lead, staying put and silent.

The cop rushes around the couch and nods to everyone, a hasty attempt to get us moving along. Apparently, he and the music maker have more important plans to tend to, and we are no longer welcome – not that we’d been invited in the first place.

The Maestro is still staring down Jan, ignoring the audience hastily attempting to thank him for the display. I’m surprised the man has any friends at all considering he’s as dismissive of peons as my good doctor.

The cop eventually kicks the other four out, though the Shoe attempted to get my name before they left. No luck there, obviously. I gave him the name of my old superintendent and the mouse practically shoved them out the door before beginning his futile attempts to pry Jan and me out of our seats.

“Maestro is a bit fatigued, gentleman, and I’m sure his shoulder could use a rest. I hope you both enjoyed yourselves.” He steps back with a large faux smile and motions to the front door.

The Music Man ignores him entirely, his attention only on Jan’s smirk.

“I’m told you use my strings,” he huffs, “Are you a luthier as well, or do you just prefer a more genuine sound? I’m a traditionalist, and I have a workshop downstairs if you’d prefer to speak privately–”

“His workshop is amazing,” interrupts the cop, “Not a detail is overlooked. And he gets all his special stains from uh … where was it? Genoa, Italy?”

“Cremona,” he snaps, glaring at the mouse. “And it’s varnish, not _stain."_

Jan snickers at the disagreement, and I realize I’ve never seen this particular look. It’s trenchant and fierce, bold and confident, despite the dangerous position we find ourselves in.

He leans back in his chair to get a better view of the Maestro under such duress. His years of rubbing elbows with other doctors are finally surfacing, and his speech has become well-defined and excessively charismatic.

“I’m well acquainted with the butcher who runs your abattoir,” he begins, but the Maestro’s blank stare remains unimpressed. “I feel compelled to compliment you both on what you’ve been able to accomplish. Your strings offer an unmistakably clean sound – something you only hear with authentic gut.” Jan grins and leans forward on his knees, thoroughly enjoying having his target under such a finely focused microscope. “I spent months training that man in my craft,” he continues. “I wonder how long it took you.”

Junkyard dogs have far less penetrating gazes than what I am witnessing. My skin crawls and I don’t even know why. I wholeheartedly trust Janus here. If there is a throwdown, I can’t imagine him not stringing this bastard up before helping himself to the man’s kitchen.

Even the cop is squirming and quickly takes a seat on the couch next to me, clearing his throat before he speaks. “You make special trips for your strings, don’t you, Maestro? Somewhere south of here?”

“Colorado,” says Jan, and his smile is assaulting. “High in the mountains where angels fear to tread. You would have been wise to heed their warning, Maestro.”

The Music Man eyes me now as he speaks. “And what brought you here?”

It’s not fear or dread in the big black pits staring at me. It’s something closer to annoyance. It’s the same look Jan flashes me when he thinks I’m lying. I don’t know why, because I’m not here to taunt this wild animal, but I wink at him, and his lip twitches.

He turns back to Jan, who’s wagging his finger like Santa about to tisk-tisk your naughty behavior. _“You_ brought us here, Music Man. My dear friend Fledge drew your name from a very unlucky hat. So we came to see what sort of music you make. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by our little side trip. You, however, probably won’t be.”

“I assure you,” he says, “I am quite surprised.”

“But is it pleasant?”

The cop hacks another wad of anxiety from his throat and suddenly taps my knee. “Fledge, is it? That’s an unusual name. Is it Dutch?”

I scoff and glance at Jan, but he’s stoic, grinding his teeth, and eyeing my now sullied knee.

“Not Dutch,” I say to the cop, but all my focus is on Jan’s sudden petulance. A moment more eyeing my knee and his attention returns to The Music Man, where it should have remained.

“What drew you to the Carnatic style?” he asks him.

As expected, the cop can’t keep his trap shut. “Maestro’s always been interested in Indian culture. One of his favorite paintings at the museum depicts a woman with a tanpura – you know, the long-necked instrument that, uh … sort of looks like a …” He trails off when The Music Man huffs out a loud sigh.

Jan’s ears perk right up, though. “The museum?”

“Where I work,” the mouse clarifies. “I’m a security guard at an art museum in Salt Lake.”

I can’t hold back the laugh that erupts from under my breath. This jackass is just a goddamn rent-a-cop.

The Maestro’s ignoring the mouse and me, which makes sense. We’re not nearly as interesting as the dolled-up and pompous bastard with the sharp jaw and wicked tongue.

“A virtuoso of the Carnatic style performed with my orchestra several years ago,” he finally explains. “He studied in India for two decades. I was intrigued, so we practiced. I pick up new techniques very quickly.”

“I bet you do,” says Jan. “Are you typically trained by masters, or are you mostly self-taught?”

“Self-taught,” he sneers. “I’m interested in all musical endeavors – instrument construction being particularly intriguing – so I’ve taken up a few of the more exotic instruments to quell my insatiable need to learn.”

“I wonder just how exotic?” asks Jan. I’m wondering that myself.

The Music Man glances at the grimacing idiot next to me before continuing, “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I have a performance this evening which I’d like to prepare for. If you’ll excuse me, my friend can show you out.” He stands, and the mouse man jumps to his feet, scrambling to the door.

We aren’t leaving, obviously. That train sailed the moment the door shut, and I’m a bit curious to learn more about this mysterious Maestro and how he procures his musical ingredients.

I’m finding this an interesting position to be in. I’m not the one being grilled or harassed or stepped on, I have Janus at my side and my back, and I can see on Jan’s beaming face that he feels the same excitement swelling within himself as well.

I hold up my hands to stop this nonsense. This is my dog-and-pony show after all. “I don’t know about Dr … whatever the hell he said his name was, but I think I’d like to see your workshop before we leave.” I don’t know why I say it, I just do. I’m not even that interested.

Jan’s obviously pleased as all hell. He nods and leans back in his chair. “I am also tad curious. That is, if the offer is still on the table.”

“Gentlemen!” laughs the mouse, and he nervously claps his hands. “Let’s not overstay our welcome! The Maestro needs some time to prepare for this evening; I’m sure you don’t mind.” He gestures to the door like a mime bailing water and Jan actually stands.

I can’t imagine him insisting that we leave, so I watch him like a hawk as he ignores the mouse man and returns to the bookcase to finger more leather-bound spines. He finds and opens a small, decorated wooden box, humming to himself as he tips it to inspect the contents.

“You own one of Paganini's medals,” he says and holds up the box for me to see the round, bronze medal set atop a black velvet pillow. It bears the profile of a very Italian face, and I briefly wonder if Mr. Opportunistic isn’t going to swipe it after we’re done here. That face would make a handsome fiancé for the lonely Frenchwoman at the bottom of his pocket.

“Paganini was one of the greats,” says the Maestro. “That medal was a gift when I left my former opera house.”

Janus traces the outline of the medal and nods. “I’m sure you’re well aware of the allegation surrounding Niccolo Paganini.”

“I am,” he replies. “His appearance and expertise with the violin caused an accusation to spread. They said he had a pact with the devil.”

I’m not sure how much I like listening to them discuss shit that’s going right over my head. It feels intentionally patronizing.

Jan slowly nods. “I believe it was the Bishop of Nice who performed his sacrament. But after his death, the church still refused to bury him. Isn’t that right?” He glances over his shoulder at the Music Man. “Such an ungodly fuss over a hooked nose.”

The Maestro has to be tearing his mind apart as he attempts to discern what the hell our plans are in his home. I’m starting to wonder what Jan’s plans are, myself.

When the mouse begins to speak again, the Maestro dismisses him with a wave and continues the conversation himself, “You said you trained my acquaintance in Colorado. I haven’t seen the man in months. Exactly how well do you know him?”

“Far better than you,” says Janus. “And I was unaware that he was taking on new projects. I wasn’t particularly happy to hear that.”

“He is a man of many talents – though his methods are crude and unorthodox. But you seem like a generous man with good taste. You probably know how difficult it is to find a trustworthy craftsman. I’m sure you don’t mind sharing his skill set.”

“I’ve never been one to share,” says Jan, and those are the truest words the man has ever uttered.

“That’s unfortunate to hear. Did you tell him how you felt?”

Jan snickers and thumbs toward me. “Fledge tried to have a few words with him, but the man wasn’t willing to listen – got a little too excited and ended up losing his head. Isn’t that right, Fledge?”

“Had to give him the axe,” I say as my face and neck ignite. “The separation was a little messy, but he’ll get over it, and like the good doctor said, neither of us likes to share things … spotlight included.”

“It’s a shame we couldn’t all work together,” says the Maestro. Yes, it is _such_ a shame. “I’ve not met many others as musically inclined as myself.”

“Now that’s not true, Maestro! The symphony is full of amazing talent!” Nobody looks at the squeaky mouse; he needs to clam up or get out.

The Music Man’s obviously getting a little antsy now. He stands and fixes his sleeves before stepping behind his dining chair like he’s about to tidy up. “What exactly were your intentions when you sought me out?”

“To have a chit-chat,” says Jan, and I wasn’t expecting that. “Maybe compare notes. Fledge though –” He clicks his tongue as he strips me with his eyes. “He’s my wildcard. He’s got his own agenda, and I’m not inclined to touch it with a ten-foot pole.”

Suddenly I’m in the spotlight.

The Music Man turns to me. “And _your_ intentions, _Fledge?”_

My intentions? I’d forgotten them for a second.

“I came seeking harmony,” I say, “And I’m finding you very harmonious, Music Man. You sing a sweet song – the trill of a Siren – and you dwell in a very interesting cave in your own cozy corner of the world. I just came to take a peek inside – look around a bit.”

“So you’re interested in seeing my _other_ performances, then.”

His other _performances?_ His audacity is staggering.

“Not really. Your music isn’t my style. I like something with a bit more … heart. I just came to share my own performance – something of a grand finale of sorts.”

He doesn’t care for my puns, but he can go fuck himself. Jan and I think they’re funny and that’s all that matters.

Janus suddenly rounds the back of the couch and leans down to my ear, not bothering to keep up appearances or lower his voice. “What’s your plan, gorgeous?”

I don’t know.

We’re past the door – step one complete.

We’ve been introduced – step two.

The Music Man has a nice little pad out here and several foolishly adoring fans. He enjoys the exotic and all things fancy. He has quite interesting tastes – a gourmand like my dear companion, so I’m not certain I know exactly what to do.

I notice the Maestro’s jaw clench and lips purse as he watches Jan cozy up to my cheek.

“What do you think, Fledge? Shall we dine like kings tonight, or feast like the gods?”

Kings, gods, a musical though murderous bard about to be stripped of his distinguished attire and summoned back to whatever savage pit he crawled from ...

“I’m feeling very godly, Doctor. And you know very well that I’m starving.”

He smiles and drags his nose up my cheek, pecking my temple. “Then we shall feast.”

He stands, and I hear him slowly back away from the couch. The Music Man’s pupils dilate and teeth continue to gnash.

What does he think is about to happen? His eyes are anchored on Jan’s moving body, and I turn to see what’s caught his undivided attention.

Jan locks the deadbolt on the front door and turns to the mouse, who’s as confused as ever.

“Would you mind?” he asks him, drawing a circle in the air between them.

The mouse cranes his neck to look at his own back. “What? Is there something on my scarf? I just got this last week for this specific party. Everyone wears them in India.”

Jan’s hand hasn’t stopped twisting mid-air, and when the mouse finally turns as instructed, a dull crack sends a charge up my spine.

Knees smack the floor, then the guard’s body tumbles forward onto its belly.

This was never part of the plan.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“Cleaning, Fledge, and you’re up.”

Jan points to The Music Man, and I turn back to catch him inching toward the kitchen doorway, the chair still separating him from us.

“You saved me the trouble,” he says to Jan.

“What are new friends for?”

This isn’t funny.

We didn’t come here to set traps and murder innocent men. This is about retribution. This is about rebalancing a cosmic injustice.

“You’re fucking up the count,” I snap.

“I don’t have a count, Fledge.” He suddenly nods towards the kitchen. “He’s about to bolt, Hop. You might want to get off your ass.”

I stand as the Maestro charges through the doorway behind him. I leap over the coffee table and skitter across the floor of the empty kitchen. He’s disappeared.

The kitchen is bare and clean, but there’s something missing from the knife block – a cleaver or a chef’s knife, something big – so I keep my back to the counter as I scan the walls. There’s a doorway into the dining room and two white doors at the far end of the kitchen – a closet or a pantry, but no sign of The Music Man.

“I lost him!”

“He’s going to have hiding spots," he calls from the living room, "And a cache of weapons. But if you flush him out, I’m not helping you. This is your baby, you understand that?”

My _baby_ … sure.

I inch closer to the doors. “What if he kills me?”

“Ye of little faith, son.”

_“Ye of no faith …”_

“Immobilize him first, and try not to get him in the gut – spoils the meat.”

“Or, you know, you could just help me!” I duck into the dining room and back out when I see it’s empty. He could be waiting behind either door, and now he’s had time to arm himself.

“I plan to watch you, gorgeous, not help.”

“Watch me get stabbed or shot?”

“He won’t shoot you ...”

I scoff and lean against the wall between the doors, raising my voice. “Can’t we all just sit down and talk about this like adults?!”

“We will, Fledge!” yells Jan. “At the dinner table like old friends.”

I pull out my knife and it opens with a snap.

I was fine in the other room, now I’m nothing but a sick ball of nerves with a pointy metal stick.

Jan’s head pops out from around the door casing. “Fledge, son, what are you doing? Put that away.”

No way in hell. I’m not bare-knuckle boxing this asshole.

“You’ll end up stabbing yourself. Put it away, and it stays in your pocket until ...” He tips his head as he thinks and trails off. “Maybe I should help you.”

“Now wait, I’m not stupid.” But I close and pocket the knife anyway. Honestly though, if Jan had said I needed to strip nude and cover myself in baby oil right now I would. I have no idea what I’m doing.

“You’ve given him time to form a plan now, Fledge. So what’s yours?”

“I was going to open a door and then … stab stab. I don’t know.”

“Jesus Christ,” he scoffs.

And what exactly was he expecting? The worst fight I’ve ever been in was when I tried to break up an argument between two ninth-graders who "accidentally" kicked me in the balls.

“As long as we don’t split up. You’ll be fine,” he says. “Remember what we talked about, and I’ll help you if it gets out of hand, but do what you have to do. We don’t fight clean.”

“Something tells me he’s not really going to care how dirty I fight.”

“Whatever you do, Fledge, do not find yourself alone with him. This is his turf and he has the upper hand.”

I’m about to tell him just how reassuring that is, when the door to my right barely cracks. A hand grabs my shirt, wrenches me inside, and I’m thrown down a flight of stairs. I crash and tumble, biting my tongue when my skull cracks against concrete.

A door slams, and I roll to my side, pain shooting up the back of my neck as I move. I’m spitting out a mouthful of blood when I hear a lock twist and keys rattle.

My vision clears just enough to scan the workshop walls before the lights are cut and I’m left in the dark. I scramble forward, smacking my shoulder against a metal workbench before clambering around to hide underneath.

 _Don’t get separated,_ he said. Solid fucking advice.

As my ringing ears clear, I hear shoes tap each step, slowly descending the stairs. The taps are muffled by the chaotic booms of a boot slamming the locked door behind him. Jan’s indecipherable swears from above go ignored.

“That door is not coming down,” he says. “It’s just you and me now.” He has to hear my disgusted scoff over Jan’s pounding fists because he continues, “Am I mistaken or are you Dr. Silentio’s pupil?”

Something metallic scrapes against a wall behind me and I peek out from under the bench. I duck back when I realize I can’t see shit.

“You can speak,” he says. “I already know where you are.”

I’d rather not trust this asshole, but it feels like he wants to talk – deliver his great monologue before the kill – talk about egomaniacal.

This is useful though. If he’s talking, he’s thinking, and therefore not stabbing.

“Speak to me, fledgling. Why did you actually come here?”

I don’t have to overpower him, I just have to find his weakness and exploit it. “I told you why – to bring _harmony.”_

He has an ego like Janus: a balloon – rotund but delicate.

“Then why’d you attack my String Man?”

“String Man was a bit flighty … and he was rude to me.”

“Are you a feral brute then, or just a vigilante?”

“Neither … I’m more like a reckoner.”

“You consider yourself Lady Justice. That makes a bit more sense.”

What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

A hammer whacks the workbench and I jump, smacking my head.

“I know this shop; it’s my home. Did you honestly expect to saunter in and take me by surprise?”

“I sort of did, yeah.”

His chuckle is deep and inherently condescending. “And what have I done to you, fledgling? What are you reckoning exactly? I make beautiful music.”

_Whack!_

I cover my ears.

“I create magnificent art.”

_Whack!_

“My hands are skilled and my mind well studied, and you are attempting to destroy all of that. Why?”

He pauses, finally letting me speak. “It’s nothing personal, Music Man. But I’ve seen your _magnificent_ work – one piece of it, anyway. Your String Man kept a nice little file on you.”

_Whack!_

Jesus! “I was not impressed by _‘Mr. Harpman in a blood drum,’_ or whatever you want to call that shameless exhibit.”

_Whack!_

“I’ve lived nearly forty years!” I snap. “I’ve watched the incredibly cruel take out their hostility on the innocent in the name of science, and now art, and I’m not a fan. I won’t abide it any longer.”

_Whack!_

He stops to collect his breath. “Sounds like vigilante justice after all.”

When I hear his feet step to the other side of the bench, I quietly scramble toward the back of the workshop. Before the light flicked off I saw tools, something sharp – _weapons are everywhere._ My hands slide up the front of a cupboard and I stand, groping in the dark, until I find what feels like a chisel or a file, and I turn to face the voice in the darkness.

“What did you find so disturbing about my dealings with String Man?” he wonders. “Surely it wasn’t his process. If Dr. Silentio is who I think he is, you travel with a butcher.”

Now how would he know that?

I back away from his voice, my calf smacking a low table, and I hiss. “It wasn’t _his_ process, but rather _your_ principle. Steel sounds just as pleasant as gut.”

I paw at my throbbing leg as I limp to a cold cinder block wall. “No need to kill men for your pretty little songs,” I say. “That’s the thinking of a madman.”

He dives and a cupboard rips open. I’m not in there.

“What I do and what I play has never been done before,” he claims. “I am giving meaning to wretches who are clueless to what constitutes an ample contribution to society.”

“You think you are the first to do something like this? Adorable. What is it about your special skills that give you the right to play God?”

He stops and I can hear his arms drop to his sides. “Are you attempting irony? Or are you truly that delusional?”

I’m _attempting_ to stay alive, and the delusions ended years ago. The ramifications of my words today will be long forgotten when my adrenaline wears off, no worries there.

“I’m not delusional anymore, but I am a fan of irony as a literary device; it’s entertaining. And I am fully aware of what I preach.”

“Not delusional _anymore_ …,” he repeats, trailing off as he turns towards my voice. “If I am the madman, what exactly are you – a broken little bird? The Doctor’s fawning parasite?”

“I’m a poet!” I shout and quickly wedge myself between a tall cabinet and sheets of wood leaning against the wall. He’s close, so I crouch and hold my breath.

“There’s no difference between a poet and a madman,” he says. “One simply has a better grasp of a pencil.”

I hear him pass in front of me, the smooth soles of his shoes twisting on the concrete floor as he moves. “And we all suffer from madness, little bird. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I crawl from under the wood stack and circle back when I hear him stop near where I think the stairs are.

“I don’t know about you,” I say, “but I was presented with a clean bill of health when I was discharged. Madness be damned.”

He laughs and takes another step. “You’re his patient then. He plucked you from a padded cell. The Doctor’s not mad; he’s just practical.”

Jan’s gone silent upstairs. I wonder if he’s given up on me, or if he’s looking for a wrecking ball.

“Practicality is madness,” I say.

“And to surrender your dreams is madness,” he drones, “to seek treasure where there is only trash is madness, et cetera and so forth.”

“Mad, mad, mad …,” I egg on. “The world is nothing but madness.”

I hear him step toward me, and I back against a post in the middle of the room. I’m not sure anything separates us now, and I can hear his deep, seething breaths.

“Too much _sanity_ could be madness, fledgling, but I’m sure we don’t suffer there.”

“Speak for yourself.”

He snickers and stops. “Do you know what’s the maddest of all?”

I twist away from him, edging to the back of the pole, as I think. “To see life as it is, and not as it should be? Sanity is a but a curse, Maestro. But I’m not sure we should give too much credence to the words of Cervantes, Benengeli, or the Man of La Mancha.”

I drop to a crouch and crawl back to the wall, but the Music Man waits in the wings.

“How long have you been at this, little bird?”

“At what?”

“Hunting.”

“I don’t hunt. I fish.”

“Reckoning, then.”

“Technically? It all started thirty-seven years ago.” I scramble toward the opposing wall, but stop when he suddenly cuts me off. “But only with a purpose for the last two months.”

“Have you always been so gullible, or is the butcher that good in bed?”

A heavy crate crashes to the floor, pummelling my face with glass and splinters. I scramble back to the post and stand again, spitting out a wad of bloody sawdust.

“I’m a bit impressionable, I’ll give you that. But I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t an excellent lay. Were you fucking your buddy up there? If you were, the butcher’s sorry about that.”

His breath hisses and a cabinet smashes to the floor, showering us in glass.

The room falls silent as the dirt and wood settle.

I’m not dead, Butcher. If you’re still in the house, keep working on the goddamn door.

Feet crunch over glass as The Music Man works his way toward the post I’m backed against.

“Whatever he’s doing to you,” he says, “he did the same to String Man. The man was a mess when I found him: a blathering boob with a conspiracy-riddled manifesto and a cache of archaic weapons. He was obsessive, arrogant, and had no grasp on reality. Sound familiar?”

That’s all a lie. Colorado Guy was already crazy when he found him out in the desert. Butch did nothing to that animal but try to turn him into something useful.

He hums when I don’t reply. “I guess the butcher did call you his wildcard. You must be more unpredictable. My String Man was fiercely predictable – king of the cage he locked himself inside.”

“The butcher’s dramatic. I’m not a wildcard, I’m just fickle.”

“So your friendly butcher fed you, bedded you, and led you astray. Were you really a poet in your former life or was that just for my benefit?”

“I was an English teacher.”

His booming laugh fills the workshop – an obnoxious cacophony that feels like a stab to my gut. “Stop me when I’m wrong, fledgling: father trotted off to war and dear mother didn’t love you. You were teased as a child, right? Did the loss of a family pet scar your poor soul?”

I chuck the chisel into the darkness and it smacks him, bouncing off and clattering to the floor.

He seethes through his teeth. “You retaliate like a child.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Debris taps the floor as he brushes his sleeves. “I don’t think you fully appreciate the gravity of the situation you’re currently enjoying. I plan to restring my cello with you.”

I twist around the pole again. “Do you know what fury awaits you at the top of those steps?”

“A madman awaits me … although it sounds like he may have abandoned you.”

“I assure you, he has not abandoned me.”

“Has he pledged his undying love, then? I heard my front door close. I’d imagine he’s out prowling the streets for more disillusioned schoolteachers as we speak.”

This asshole will not shut his goddamn mouth. I scoop up a chunk of wood and chuck it over my shoulder. It taps and bounces across to the floor. “We’re a team.”

“My God, you are gullible … you’re his sweet southern belle who does whatever he orders.”

He must hear my snarl because he snickers before continuing, “What I’m wondering is why a man like your butcher would purposefully saddle himself with a liability. He’s a lone wolf, not a babysitter.”

“And now you’ve trapped and threatened that lone wolf’s _southern belle._ How do you plan to reason with the wolf when that door swings open?”

“He and I share enough commonalities, and I don’t believe he’s irrational, unlike you. We can traverse the nuances of the world in a way a rube like yourself couldn’t even fathom. You are nothing but a passing toy to him. He’ll get over it.”

“So you plan to snatch a toy from a rabid wolf’s jaws and then ask him not to maul you to death? You are certainly a genius.”

I crouch to the floor with the cold metal pole still at my back and pull out my knife as more glass crunches behind me – _don’t rely on your knife, but use it if you have a clear target._

“A mysterious stranger gave you a fresh perspective on your pathetic life, probably springing you from a drunk tank or a madhouse, and you fell for it like a dumb chimp. He licked your wounds and gave you a little affection, and now suddenly you hold all the power. You get to decide who is right and who is wrong – I am cruel and you are just! He taught you how to smith iron into gold apparently.”

I catch his quick inhale and a _crack!_ vibrates through the pole. A hard tool clangs again, just two feet above my head.

He’s right in front of me and testing my resolve.

My knife flicks open and I twist around, stabbing his thigh. He shrieks, and I let go as he clips my arm with a wooden handle. I roll forward, smashing myself under the workbench again.

We both stop, momentarily occupied by pain and adrenaline, and through the silence, I hear his muffled snarls.

Drips tap the floor and my knife clatters across the concrete.

“Not iron to gold,” I say. “I smith iron to steel – nothing magical about that. Butcher guilds the hilt, though, and he’s a far better craftsman than you.”

Glass crunches, then _whack!_ and I jump again.

“Face me like a man, you child!”

No way. He turned off the lights. If he thinks I’m all about honor and integrity, he’s not listening very closely.

“If you’re a man of such grandeur,” I say, “take a moment. Tend to your leg and tell me about your methods. Wow me with your genius, Maestro. I’ll wait.”

He pauses, then stumbles back, a metal stool dragging across the floor with him. He must have sat because he’s quiet now, only a faint hiss escaping him as he fingers the gash in his leg. At least he’s not coming at me now.

“Do you plan to batten down under there? Let me bleed out? It’s cowardly.”

“No. Before things get further out of hand, I’d like to pause. I’m sure you don’t often get the opportunity to talk about your special performances. I’m offering a truce for now, and my ear. Have at it.”

He scoffs, but vanity is such an alluring temptress. “Without music,” he says, “life would be an insufferable mistake.”

“Without life, the ears cannot hear your blissful melodies, so how do you justify murder?”

“I have never needed justification, little bird. I search for an obstacle and I overcome it. I am learning a new art – a new skill. Death comes with the territory. I am playing music that no one has ever heard before. It is hypnotizing. It is historical. It is pioneering. There are always casualties with innovation.”

“Clever.”

“I give purpose. I make beauty out of the wasted.”

“You certainly have an interesting definition of wasted. How do you pick your victims?”

“They pick themselves – through an eloquent voice or an amusing name. Their existence calls to me and I respond.”

“Are they vagrants? The indefensible?”

“That’s more of your butcher’s or String Man’s cup of tea. Mine are educated, sophisticated, often world travelers.”

“Whew,” I sigh. “High-risk. Very interesting.”

“It’s a necessary hazard. Why would I trouble myself to harvest from creatures who don’t deserve my skillful touch?”

“I guess you wouldn’t. How do you find them? Are they opera patrons? Or maybe you use catchy classifieds to trap them.”

“A trustworthy friend delivers my options. You should know that trust is not easy to obtain. He may have been bumbling and unrefined, but he was loyal to a fault, and you can’t buy that. It must be cultivated very slowly.”

A friend – a worthy confidant cultivated over time to deliver the goods. Bumbling but loyal …  

“Mouse man … ?”

No.

Not a mouse … a rat.

“What did you say?”

A rat. A conniving, plague-ridden rat, tempting victims with his rosy cheeks, religious nonsense, and promises of private, prestigious shows.

How did I miss that?

He invited us inside – more options for his master – and I bought it like a fool. I needed more time – a plan, a design. I walked unknowingly into a trap, and worst of all, Butcher let me, that son of a bitch.

I take a deep breath. “So you justify your slaughter for the sake of art.”

 _“L'art pour l'art,”_ he says. “Art needs no justification.”

“What you do is not art; it’s murder.”

“Lob another stone, fledgling, and watch your house shatter. You insist I offer my own rationale for what I do, but how exactly did you justify your breakfast this morning?”

“Easily. I had blueberry pancakes served by a waitress named Kitty. They were sweet and warm, as was Kitty. She was an amateur beekeeper and had just bought a pedigreed schnauzer named Magpie Von Shultz, who was born without a tail.”

“And your good doctor?” he scoffs.

“He doesn’t have a tail either. Believe me; I’ve checked.”

“His breakfast,” he sneers. “How did you justify it?”

“He had very spiteful eggs that I oversalted while he was taking a leak ... Wait, you don’t have a soft spot for baby chickens, do you?”

“How did you justify your dinner then? Or your lunch? How do you justify forcing a madman to stay tucked in the woods, feeding him scraps, and letting the voices in his head be his only company while he does your ungodly butchering?”

“He doesn’t have a head anymore, so I don’t have to justify anything.”

He hisses and another gush splashes on the floor. “You’re not worth this trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“You antagonize and distort reality as though you are the keeper of the ultimate truth. Big words – big ideas from a very small man. You’re a waif, little bird: sick and hiding in the dark, scared of your own shadow. I was intending to stretch your vocal cords tomorrow, see if they still hide the drawl of your embarrassing roots, but my patience with you is running thin. You seem hellbent on remaining worthless, and I’m inclined to let you have your wish.”

I am not worthless.

I am not a lost or feeble cretin to be lamented and pitied by the likes of creatures like him. There is nobility in fighting for the weak or vulnerable, no matter how powerful or influential you may not be. There is no humanity in praying upon the defenseless, and since _art_ is not at all a respectable justification for killing, he has no sound argument.

The stool creeks as he stands, and I quickly loosen my boot laces. He steps closer and the workbench tips, crashing to the floor. The exposure is like a punch in the dark. I’m surrounded by empty space and a floor covered in debris. I dive toward the back cabinets, landing hard on the broken shards, where he grabs my jeans and hauls me across the floor, slicing open my shirt and skin.

“You’re a coward,” he barks and falls on me, crushing his knee into my spine. “Of all the men you could cut your teeth on, why would the butcher choose me?”

My back is about to split open. His knee twists, drilling me into the floor.

“He appreciates your work,” I groan. “Thinks you have good taste.”

He bounces on my back, and I yell, my ribs crunching against the glass.

“Then why would he sic you on me?”

I cough a wet snap, spitting across the floor, and he lessens the pressure so I can breathe.

“He wants to see you in action,” I huff. “Test you. Make sure you’re worthy of his praise, but you’ve locked us in your dungeon so I guess he’ll never know.”

“What makes him think I want his praise?”

“You saw what he did to your String Man’s mind. You’ve seen the compound. You’ve heard horror stories about the butcher. He knew _nothing_ of you. His praise would be your greatest accolade and you know it.”

“My String Man made him sound like a mythological beast.” He laughs to himself, and as he shifts his weight on my back, I sweep my hand across the floor, grazing something that feels like stiff wire.

“He called him _Nigel the Butcher,”_ he says. “Said I had similar needs. I asked to meet him once, but the lunatic just howled like a fool.”

“He was right to howl. Moonlighting was not part of _his_ deal with the butcher.”

I stretch just enough to hook the wire – but it’s not wire.

“If the butcher likes what he’s seen of me, he must not think that highly of you. He knows very well you will die down here.”

“I don’t think he expected either of us to die, actually. You just got a little defensive. We all make mistakes.”

His arm shoves my face against the floor. “You barged into my home, uninvited and unwelcome. What did you expect from me?”

“Civility.”

“Your better half left a dead man on my living room floor. That’s quite a mess for me to explain.”

“The body will disappear, no problem there.”

His fingers slide up my scalp, yanking back a handful of hair, and he hisses into my ear. “Answer truthfully: did you kill my String Man?”

“I taught him a lesson in etiquette.”

He jerks my head again. “Does he still have use of his fingers?”

“Some of them.” Another yank and I choke. “I’m not your enemy, Music Man.”

“Well, you certainly aren’t my friend, little bird.”

“What’s stopping you from crushing me right now?”

“Leverage against the bull pacing my kitchen. I’m not stupid.”

“He’s not pacing,” I snap, “He’s cooking.”

His mind seems to wander as he leans back, his fingers loosening their grip on my hair. “You’re lying.”

“Do I seem the type to lie?”

“Like a dog,” he huffs.

“He’s raiding your fridge as we speak, and he roasts one hell of a pig. If you join us for dinner, you won’t regret it, but I will require my ability to swallow.”

When he thinks his mind ticks like Butcher’s, but it’s quicker: a metronome that speeds up right before he speaks. “And if I don’t agree?”

“Your workshop has one exit and the Minotaur waits for you there. If you don’t agree to dinner, or if you ascend those stairs without me, a bloodbath will ensue and he will feast on us both. I am your leverage, as you said, and the longer we scurry around in the dark, the hungrier the beast upstairs is bound to grow.”

That metronome is suspicious. It falters as it ticks, thinking back to every word muttered through the black, varnish-filled air. There are few options at this point, but I’m not sure I’d trust a man I knew was after my hide only twenty minutes ago – but denial is so very tempting to the desperate – I would know.

“You will stay on the floor while I speak to him,” he growls. “If you move an inch, I will impale you.”

A sharp awl jabs the back of my neck before it’s quickly drawn away.

He moans and twists his leg off me, standing just to my left. Glass pops under his feet as he stumbles, his bleeding leg dragging across the floor.

Once he’s a few feet away, I kick off my boots, trying not to scrape the floor. He sounds like an injured deer fumbling through the woods – one step, drag – two steps, drag – a pause and a groan – dripping – another step. He should be at the stairs, but he’s not. He’s far to my left. Too far.

There’s a light wooden scrape, and then another step and drag.

He’s not by the steps – he’s coming back to me.

I scramble to my feet and coil the wire around my hand, softly shuffling backward until I’m against the wall again. I feel turned around, deep into the workshop now.

His crunching steps circle back and I sneak along the wall until I hit the corner.

I think I know where he is: he’s leaning over the floor where I was lying – still dripping, still crushing glass – about twelve feet into the darkness.

My boots skitter across the floor and he growls through his teeth. “I told you not to move, little bird.” His voice whips around as he listens for me. “This will not end well for you or the beast upstairs.”

Empty threats.

While he searches the far wall, I wrap the coil of catgut around the cuffs of my shirt. He has no intention of scaling those steps with me, and since he’s just rearmed, he’s left me no choice but to defend myself.

My shoeless feet take a few tentative steps.

I can hear his labored breaths in front of me and the pulsing drip of his leg as blood pools on the concrete. He’s trying to find me without moving, waiting for me to make a grievous error in footing.

Another step forward, but he doesn’t move.

Another step and I can feel his radiating body heat.

My hands raise, and before he turns, the gut slips over his head and I yank. His skull cracks my cheek, knocking me off balance. I regain my footing and twist the cord behind his neck. He thrashes, bashing my jaw with his head. The last of his defenses clatters to the floor.

He swats, barely missing my face before his hands claw at his collapsing throat. He gurgles like a drowning cat as I tighten my grip, then throws his body into me. We both stumble back, tripping over feet and tools until my skull smacks the wall. I try to push back but I’m pinned, a bright white heat flooding my blinded eyes.

I can’t move – but I don’t need more strength, I need more time. I need to wait this out – keep my grip – hold my own until it's done. This is my shot in the dark.

I grit my teeth and clench the ends of the wire until I feel his clawing slow. Then his weight drops and he drags me down the wall into a pile on the floor.

Barely breathing, I wait until my eyes flash – white, blue, black – then dim again, and his body seems to settle on top of mine.

I think he’s out – or dead – or faking, but I can’t let go of the cord. I twist my wrists again, and his throat gives just slightly, lessening the pressure on my hands as it cuts his flesh.

The gut is embedded in my palms, my wrists, his throat. I want to untwist my hands and scramble away, but I can’t let anything go yet. I have to stay in this moment – alive and panting in the dank, musty corner of this devil's workshop.

This isn't Mississippi where I ascended from my body with venomous rage gushing through my veins. It's not Colorado where I descended into hell, watching and waiting for the grisly crime to end. I’m here, in Idaho: lucid, sober, and somehow still alive. A better man be damned.

My eyes, still wide despite the darkness, twitch with the pulse in my ears, and as my shoulders are warmed by a sudden gush, I realize I don’t get to choose whether I want to stay in this moment or not, wedged between a hard wall and the sweat-soaked body of a madman.

I need relief – a reprieve – to feel a warming of this cold, bitter fear caught inside my chest, so I let my head nod forward, pressing my cheek against a soft, wet neck as the world seems to dull and bubble all around me.

I hear no drumming fists desperate to find me, no raspy breaths teasing air from my lungs, no hollow mutterings of faith or support – just the soft babble of my own inner thoughts telling me to let it all go – that this, in all its perverse beauty, is good enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [chapter 30 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-30-fools-rush-in/).
> 
> Art: [Hopper's character board](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-usTxBjkYxZ-uzmtGDnKbEwdJtOPBZu9rwGMrVqh5ycQuzu1NgA3GwrUOIwNASD9wDnVtUk_QW5RcfrAN5cLpeAaHmspmuJs3R685-0YL0S0kYUjvDXapnRnhtxcDA3IpLHK3MzPdcwcVav3rm7E_7rNGXHzb7RtbDzEBEKfIW6_X5btWlouabHZLZEY96545BzD2abejFzSiids0tmmksIr3HyFEFjiNC5F-nrd0U2M4lxL8FnHThYQFxELvjYj6r5wvMLG_Ww7qYdnFvhzbZFI2q6vS7LekTKMoMH4zZSicoxeGRCLg1YAgCj8PAfUxcwp9uBraZ2XaYyCWTb881wIFnDWYcSLuJmgqPfDWUW3wg_8I_jCkjQFJEqaqSNXpxXrO2XOspj8z9ya7jdp20xCGUAfRwIryJDSNrCGKcaa0HdmaOFfNJF0Zc_PjQxPRk9rcuhTggx7KBPD3pKL5qO8tOBGku650dM9Nh8A2fSUlKksL_0TtcKMjQink1wLnYsF81R5pSzLlCvBS2FFLxo29FmTPTpJwkt3xjVxSF62CH9V_EA0qG_umTI_bPGCkAMElktR8zm7a8nhq35WK4J6ImhyqMTq282LFEB0rLidYrVuJDVpmmIUtaZNvRcZ5FM2ucClPEZ8gnZGtQZ-RYzyr3GNcyLOKg=w805-h799-no) by [joanielspeak](https://joanielspeak.tumblr.com/post/175026871670/i-needed-to-hit-the-road-and-get-as-far-from)  
> Art: [Butcher's character board](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/_d3994h7bZ6jyspgo1GU1oSCqtujSBssTEAem23MhtigDVS_NaiFizBzeF4iMJKLewgjUFZrjLgeQxZe-q7zVvihaYTuK_FUrQiRscY166UlPW7xyLkWJoSxfudrn5fRXoPGyUTVrZxZgo5trgXZNa3x7SJx4sY5Jdm7cZVZHOUOFivUp2SjVajAfOE4SvcK1cf4kxjyeg_7_k_TuoFBLAOfBR7Eqw1I-Mzhi9v1fO2YQwgj_28aOQdIw4XbU9GO93oh6yAS7_sfXJ1hsrFwcF6PjMMFxkYWpd0yPYJzGUTyGt28Q2irLGVkAwje-DjueE50AwSrArkIuHFeG5saAenGkZoTO_HeVRxhEqiKe_u1YXblqEW431DK0zNYfXx7fv9LNMxUvfyZltVT8rQFMMebAkUJjMCHjznPMphmbYEnc1Sk6lM9eAVluLLCEEF201RPvriYM_7ykPM6T16lq0KCIXJZJXVcdwqHBmXLsGENYqp4R-i_Ttq8M-xk7BawFQh-K7YbDM63qIYM_v4KTcjQg29v3RCJmuQfdsZywSIMQioJlbBZsUXWJGZDL51OwFWIHwB8sCop8YiRx5Y5YHrS9KaFFfxl4MLDjnwE0bsNYp_nElZmmnFBp0wqlZZvNfoxBWYWZ4bHu1nSF7l_8ytVWSzd4g-xIQ=w805-h799-no) by [joanielspeak](https://joanielspeak.tumblr.com/post/175026869835/women-are-whispering-and-glancing-away-and-the)


	31. Clutching at Straws

Streamwater laps at my muddy boots, and I’m reminded of a fable I once read to some of my more troubled students. It was about a very wet and very unlucky monkey, and it went something like this:

> A lonely Florentine sailor, tasked with a three-month voyage to Istanbul, set sail from Rome bringing with him a clever, though capricious monkey to amuse him on his quest.
> 
> Halfway through their journey, off the coast of Greece, a violent storm overtook the ship, cracking it stem to stern. The sailor, his monkey, and the ill-fated crew were lobbed overboard and forced to swim or die trying.
> 
> An inquisitive sea serpent, who had always been fascinated by the men he saw fishing in the Mediterranean, saw the monkey fighting to breathe and approached, curious as to why the creature was flailing against the current.
> 
> “Are you a man by chance?” the serpent hissed over the storm.
> 
> Fearing he may drown at any moment, the monkey gurgled, “I am a man! A fisherman! But I have lost my boat and crew and fear I may drown where I thrash!”
> 
> The serpent, happy to have finally met a real man and fellow angler, began to tow the monkey toward the shore.
> 
> After much struggling with the weight of the soaked monkey, the serpent finally came in view of the land. They were not far from Athens, so the serpent asked, “Do you hail from Athens, fisherman? I can see her now.”
> 
> The monkey, still fighting to breathe amidst the crashing waves, lied yet again, “Athenian, of course! I am descended from one of the noblest families in Athens. Riches,” he claimed, “will rain upon you, dear friend, if you deliver me to port!”
> 
> The sea serpent was pleased, and as he swam closer to shore, inquired as to whether the monkey knew of the Piraeus – the famous Athenian harbor.
> 
> Having never been to Greece, the monkey assumed that the Piraeus was a nobleman, and feeling obliged to support his previous lies, answered, “I know him very well! Like a brother! There is no doubt that he will be very glad to see me remain alive! Now swim, my new friend! Your riches are so close, I can smell the gold!”
> 
> The serpent grew angry at this now blatant lie. The creature he was towing was obviously not a man; he wasn’t even a fisherman. He was a grubby, hairy little cheat, covered in fleas. The serpent had no use for the riches he was promised. The monkey was simply taking advantage of his strong back and inquisitive nature.
> 
> Insulted and enraged by the monkey’s audacity, the serpent snapped his jaw across the simian’s belly, dragged him into the deep, and drowned him just like that.

There was a point to telling you this fable, though it’s escaping me now. I think the moral was that we shouldn’t trust sea monsters, or maybe it had to do with telling the truth; that’s probably what I told my cheating students. Either way, I’m fairly certain no one wants to drown when they die – in water or a festering cesspool of lies – but as we are often reminded, the universe doesn’t listen to the likes of man or beast.

When I die, I want to be an old man. I want the buzz of life to finally quiet so I can die in peace like dear old grannies should, in the serene solitude of a meadow, or the soft bed of a cottage.

After all, when it comes to having your life end, dying in peace is the ultimate goal – at least it is for most of us. Rather than choking on blood or being shot between the eyes, we want it snuffed quietly: a life well-lived, a soul well-rested, and with the conscious mind peacefully unaware of its fate.

My doctors had always reassured me that I hadn’t died yet, which I suppose was true at the time, but I know for a fact that I can lose consciousness fine and dandy. It just takes the indignant fist of an orderly, or me snapping back a paper cup of Quaaludes to drift off, but death has always been harder for my body to grasp. The overactive, subliminal bits jumping around in my skull keep bringing me back from the potential dead. One minute I’m staring into the blackness, ready to hang up my coat and kick it, and the next I find myself embarking on a recreant escape from reality which, in this case, landed me quite unceremoniously within a formerly quiet and unobtrusive stream.

I didn’t drown this time like the Florentine’s lying monkey, though I probably should have. I pulled myself out and collapsed like a shoddy circus tent among the weeds and wildflowers on the bank. I am the Amazing Red-Faced Man: sniveling, bleeding, and barely – but not completely – alive.

It was relieving to open my eyes and find the blinding sky peeking between the trees. It doesn’t take long for the darkness to become oppressive to lonely _âmes damnées_ like myself. Some men can cavort within that vast gloom for years, but when _I_ stumble within it for too long, alone and without direction, I become terrified of the loneliness and desperately search for the procession to hell that dropped me miles back and years ago.

What I’m trying to say is that I don’t suffer the darkness at my stream. There are no deep holes hiding shadows or puppeteers, no bottomless wells overflowing with a rich red wine – just foliage and the melodic trickle of a mountainside brook.

I was aiming for the fence with the hopes of savoring a nice, long nap among the rye or oat fields while reality blew over me, but with my remarkably persistent good fortune, that never occured. I gracelessly plunged into my own stream of consciousness instead, where my mind let me float for a bit before I was caught like a raft of trash on roots and rocks.

I awoke to thunder grumbling off in the distance. A storm had raged through my forest moments before I fell, and when I came to I’d washed up on the bank across from my fishing hole, suddenly reminded of the Florentine sailor and his not-so-clever monkey.

I retold that story to myself as I hacked up a lung, and tried to remember that I don’t have to deceive anyone to get to shore here. I don’t have to beg for mercy or promise gold. I just have to clear my head, be a man, and stand the fuck up, so I did.

By the time I get my bearings, I realize this is not my stream, or at least it’s not how I remember it. A light rain still taps my shoulders and the dredged-up water, but I’m now four hundred and some odd steps from the fence. I’m in the proverbial no man’s land.

I used to know this place as intimately as I knew the now blood-stained cover of _Sirens,_ but from this odd angle it feels foreign, almost unrecognizable to me. It’s like looking at your home from a new neighbor’s porch and thinking, “That’s not my house. It looks so small and empty.” But if you move a few feet – over the property line perhaps – those hidden doors of reality open and you find yourself looking back inside the comfort of your own home, safe and familiar.

My oak doesn’t look as tall from here, the embankment not nearly as wide, and branches litter the ground where I used to sit and think.

The jewelweed is gone from upstream and has been replaced by flowerless stems poking up through grass clumps which had been caught along the shore when it flooded.

What remains of the little orange flowers has been wrapped around the base of the oak: a dirty wreath twisting between the tree and my shrinking cairn. The pile of stones is now nothing but a single fist-sized rock, teetering on a bowling ball of limestone.

This is not the sanctuary I built over a decade of diligent cultivation. It’s a neglected boscage – a hurricane-swept forest from the pages of an exotic magazine – that would never have caught my eye if I didn’t know exactly what I was looking at.

The last time I wandered through such a mess was immediately after my ex-wife first said the d-word years ago. That awkward conversation had taken place over open-faced turkey sandwiches at my father-in-law’s rancher the day after Thanksgiving one year. It was whispered like a stifled swear in a packed church, though it should have been yelled from room to room; her mother would have appreciated that.

My father-in-law sat at the head of the table, gravy coating his knuckles as he ate like a Neanderthal. His prim though improper wife sat to his right, followed by my cheerless wife, then her incompetent brother. Opposite them sat her brother’s new girlfriend holding one of her anklebiters on her lap, then myself, and finally an artificially perky aunt who’d been widowed by an icy Presbyterian stoop two Christmases before.

The bubbly aunt had been anxious to cut the silence with more than just scraping knives. “I know you two aren’t newlyweds anymore, but by golly you sure look it! What I want to know is where all your beautiful babies are?! You two better hop to it! Times a’tickin!”

That’s always the first thing anyone says to a young childless couple, like our lives are perpetually paused, circling above us as they wait for that belly to start swelling so they can drop into our laps like a bomb.

“No children,” I remember saying, “We’re not interested.” Like every other time I set foot in that house, I regretted opening my mouth immediately.

“This one’s about as virile as a priest,” said my wife, and her thought was punctuated by her drug-addled brother’s barking snort. I never liked him, and she always knew exactly how to dig her claws into me to get the best reaction from her family.

The brother’s girlfriend then leaned over the table with her own two cents, pawing at my wife’s unmoving arm. “Kids aren’t all they're cracked up to be. After this one wrecked my lower half, my doc stitched me up so far, I swore I’d never do the deed again. Then _boom!_ Another one popped out a year later. Trust me when I say you should take all the time you need.”

“Such wonderful advice from a floozy,” said my mother-in-law. She’d lost all hope at finding anything redeeming about her son or his unapologetic choices in a mate. She probably felt the same about her daughter’s choices, too. Her entire life had been resting on my wife’s ability to procreate, and we were all failing her miserably.

The table returned to reticence until that bubbly voice piped up again. “You two are coming up on seven years, aren’t you? Feeling itchy yet?” I remember her aunt squirming in her seat, a dumb damn smile on her face, and totally unwilling to give up her rude probing without a fight.

But my wife’s eyes never left her untouched pile of mashed potatoes. “I feel the itch, aunty; all the way to my bones.”

“You two should take a trip! Go out on the bay or Deep Creek! Have some fun and spend some quality time together! Treat it like a second honeymoon! That’ll get you in the family way!”

“We never had a first honeymoon,” she said.

“Well you gotta do something,” she nervously laughed, “or you’ll never make it another seven years!”

My mother-in-law dropped her fork, pissed about the conversation – or her sister’s big mouth – or maybe it was all the corn skins stuck in her husband’s teeth. She stood and made a ruckus about lime Jello while my wife huffed under her breath, “We’ll be divorced long before then …”

The dissolution of my marriage wasn’t quick like this storm had been. It wasn’t over and done with so we could all get back to the pain of trying to survive our lives alone. It was slow and ruthless and lasted another five grueling years.

The reality of what was happening to us then didn’t hit me until a week or so before Christmas. Panic ignited in my head and a fire ripped through my dry, leafless forest. It was fueled equally by animosity and fear. Animosity with myself for feeling responsible for all our hardship, and fear at what might come next: eternal darkness or a return to state-ordered isolation.

From the ashes of that wildfire rose a pretty little plant with shiny leaves and tiny orange flowers. It was out of season, and an unexpected burst of color in an otherwise sooty, dull gray forest. For weeks I’d cleared the embankment of charred wood and raked up piles of ash, watching the orange jewelweed spread and the underbrush leaf again as spring threatened my forest and my home back in Baltimore. It gave me just enough hope to hang on for a little bit longer, and encouraged me to find random oases of satiation at bars like The Blue Oyster after work.

What my wife did in all her spare time alone, I never asked. I just paid the bills and humbly requested that she changed the bed sheets before I got home every night. She agreed and kept to herself, never once asking me why I’d occasionally limp home in the middle of the night, only to pass out while soaking in the tub.

That feels like a lifetime ago, back when I’d duck into my mind to fish while enjoying an unwarranted dressing-down from my argumentative superintendent, or to avoid a particularly painful tryst with a game of solitaire in my field.

Since then, I stopped coming here to fish, or think, or do any number of the childish activities I used to. Today, I came to stop time, to hide or be hidden from what lurks in the darkness by bathing in a little leaf-dappled light. I’m not as frivolous with my time anymore.

As much as I’d like to wake up, walk away, and let this once-lush forest grow up and consume my old, familiar haunt, I can’t. It feels too much like a personal betrayal to abandon what I’ve worked to propagate for my many hours of need.

I’m a mess: bruised, sore, and dressed in faded, muddy jeans and a button-less shirt that flaps in the breeze, but I trudge across the stream anyway and start my penance by dragging broken limbs into the woods. Most of the larger branches still look like living trees, propped like a haphazard lean-to against a tall ash tree. I tip a few limbs into a pile along the embankment and the shadowy patch of grass under them is finally lit by the sky.

There, spread on the ground under the lean-to is a bright blue and green afghan. Its edges are muddy and covered in twigs, and in the center of the blanket are wet place settings, disarranged and littered with leaves.

A picnic has been carefully laid out: two clear plates next to knives, forks and spoons on folded yellow napkins. Above each plate sits a wine glass, though one must have tipped during the storm and now lies in shards across the blanket.

I don’t eat in my forest, except for a handful of mulberries or an occasional persimmon if I’m lucky enough to find one. I don’t cook beyond warming water on a fire for crawfish or coffee. But what I certainly don’t do is entertain here. Sharing food has never brought me comfort, and this stream is my refuge, not a place to torment my taste buds by forcing food and bad company down my throat.

I clear away more branches, and the air suddenly thickens with a heavy, hot buzz. A swarm of insects twists from under the lean-to and I step back as they dissipate into the muggy air.

I’m not sure I want to see what lies further inside, in the off-chance that this might be a coffin of some sort. But when the flies thin, I go against my better judgement and crouch, peering across the rest of the shaded afghan.

A large platter of sliced, white cheese is sweating in the warm air. It’s accompanied by softening water crackers and a ceramic bowl of dark pink paste garnished with green olives, and now a layer of blowflies.

If that wasn’t enough, in the center of that mess, on a white, footed cake stand is what looks like the remains of a pie, cracked right down the middle. It’s not a diner pie – rhubarb or cherry – it looks like a meat pie, Fleet Street style. Moist chunks of broken crust and meat have fallen from the stand, and are now providing a veritable feast for the hungry black ants that have gathered en masse to share the spoils.

Next to the pie, and waiting quite patiently for a sommelier, sits a wine key and a bottle of Montrachet inside an ice bucket full of tepid water, the label slowly disintegrating as it sweats.

I don’t know who this food was meant for, but its smell and mere existence makes my stomach knot. I did not set these places, nor did I welcome a guest to do so on my behalf. I do not allow strangers to wander freely through the corners of my mind. The results of such irresponsible behavior could be, and have been, disastrous.

What worries me the most is the care that was taken to present this now ruined feast. There was intent when it was laid here before the storm, and it shows in the cluster of wilting bluebells resting across one of the plates. It shows in the bundle of rye grass splayed across the other. It shows in the remnants of the ornate design carefully cut into the cracked pieces of hot water crust and in the wooden bowl of fresh cherries, neatly arranged in a tapering pile, only now the bowl is filled with rainwater and ash leaves.

This is my tree-lined sanctum of healing and hope, not a playground for the villainous to defile with their tainted pablum and picnic baskets.

How dare he release this plague of flies and pestilence upon me! 

A heat rushes through my veins, and if the ground at my feet wasn't so saturated, this place would ignite in a blaze. He infects what little morality still clings to my bare bones with this disrespectful display. He’s taunting me again, watching me crumble like that ill-gotten pie.

My stream is polluted now: swarmed with flies and trashed by flood water. I can't look at or smell this anymore, so I close my eyes and bolt between the trees. I don’t get lost here, and within seconds I hear my boots thud against the packed earth that leads toward the open air of the field.

After bounding three hundred heart-pounding steps into the woods, I skid to a stop at that fallen tree cutting across the trail. Its massive trunk is as straight as a ship's mast, and though impossible, it feels like it spans the scope of my entire forest.

This obstruction fell months ago, sometime between my abrupt change of occupation and when a certain highbrow bit me in a moment of uninhibited zest, and now it tries to block my only escape. Wormwood and gall fill my stomach – my throat – my mouth –  because this cannot stand. He has no power here.

I throw my belly against the vine-covered log and climb, grasping for limbs. As I pull myself up, my hand slices across a long, sharp spike. The spike snaps and I plunge to the ground – a long, wooden needle woven under the skin of my palm.

This is a locust tree, covered in hard, dry thorns, not the papery, easy-to-climb birch I remember from months ago.

This place is infected. It’s changing at too rapid a pace, leaving rotten food and debris everywhere I once enjoyed. Now this disease has replaced a bright and beautiful birch with an unnecessarily hostile locust tree.

If these malevolent mutations weren’t enough, I now realize that the leaves weaving among the spikes are in clusters of three, red veins carefully warning fools like me to watch their grip. The whole damn log is covered in poison ivy, making this barbed fence toxic as well.

How am I supposed to regroup, ground myself, or heal when my own safe haven works against me? What am I supposed to learn here when this place is as frustrating as aimless trucks, fateful diners, and workshops of the wicked?

I stand, quickly yanking the thorn from my hand and flick it away when I hear it tink off something metallic on top of the log.

Beyond the ivy, a tool perched on the log teeters from the slight breeze blowing through the woods.

It’s not a fishing pole, or a tackle box, or even a deck of cards. It’s his axe – the axe – the true love axe – invasively wobbling in front of me before it tips and plunges its bit three inches into the wet earth by my feet.

This is certainly an unexpected development. Only moments ago I was heading for the field – open air and a bright blue sky being my temporary relief; but there’s no reason to rush to my new refuge. Not now.

There’s no reason to clamber up and over this belligerent log and battle my way out to the clearing when I can take this opportunity to properly clear the path before moving on. Who would want this treacherous, poisonous thorn to remain in their side anyway? Not I.

This tree belittles me. It mocks me, and the axe feels good in my raw hands – heavy but satisfying.

 _Choke up,_ he said to me once. _She’s my true love._

I choke up and throw the axe over my head, smacking the log and slicing through the malignant vines and spikes. The dull thud hits just the right spot, and my spine tingles. Out pops the axe and I see it left a nice laceration, creamy white flesh peeking at me from beneath the thorny bark.

Another swing, another hit.

Another yank, another throw.

Another crack, and wood chips pelt my sweaty chest.

Greenbriar along the path catches my jeans and the tattered edges of my torn shirt as I furiously hack wedges of wood until my bones ache.

My hands blister with each swing, and after a long and agonizing ordeal, a three-foot expanse of poisonous, spike-encrusted tree drops to the path.

I’m out of breath and soaked with rainwater and sweat, so I follow the log’s lead and do the same, collapsing to the ground.

He doesn’t get to provoke me or make a mockery of my life without feeling something bite him in the ass. He doesn’t get to call me a pawn, a toy, an ignorant southern belle without choking on his own goddamn words. 

I sit up, tip back my head and lean against another tree, the soft rain still drumming against the leaf litter, making the ferns dance to the delicate tune surrounding me.

My back and shoulders throb from all my apparent hewing of wood and drawing of water, so I let my eyes rest for a moment while I recover.

This is not where I need to be. It’s not comforting or restorative here. This is just another less formal prison to lock myself inside.

I could go back. I could drop through the earth and return to that abysmal tomb, and I’m contesting the pros and cons of fighting through this forest, retreating back to the shadows, or bothering to wake up at all, when I hear it … a sound so soft and sweet it nearly makes me cry. 

The voice of an angel blows through my forest. “It’s not enough to help the feeble up,” it says,  “we must support him after.”

Light floods my eyes again and my sweaty head snaps forward. 

I know that tender voice drifting through the air. My gaze lifts and feasts upon the same sad smile she always wore when she looked at me.

“And how are you today?” she asks.

“Men are stupid and vicious,” I sigh, “but this is a lovely day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter 31 notes](https://www.joanielspeak.com/2018/09/16/unhitched-ch-31-clutching-at-straws/).


	32. Average Dogs

I jolt awake at the sound of a caustic growl bouncing around inside my head. It grumbles and coughs before it seems to project into the pitch-black workshop. “Look at me, boy! Didn’t no one ever teach you to look adults in the eye when they’re talking to you?!”

The old codger always spat and hissed when he spoke to me as a kid – little beads of moisture spraying my glasses, which I never dared to wipe away.

“What are you, a goddamn stiff?” I hear him say.

A cloud of noxious cigar smoke would bellow from his mouth, filling his wife’s dimly-lit and plastic-covered sitting room, and making my lemonade taste like dirty socks. I never wanted to look at him, but my sweet old neighbor would smile and tap my arm, begging me to placate her husband so he wouldn’t start yelling.

“It goes like this you damn goof: _even average dogs get bones eventually_ – average dogs like you, boy. Say it back to me now. Speak!”

“Even average dogs get bones eventually.”

“That’s right. You know what it means?”

I did know what it meant: E-A-D-G-B-E.

He’d stare at me with his beady, oily eyes, and my gaze would immediately dip to his twitching hand. It shook incessantly – a steady _thip, thip, thip, thip, thip_ against the knee of his cheap slacks. His wife said he’d been a famous telegrapher during the war – honorably discharged and all that – but everyone else just called him a drunk.

“You going to answer me, ya pissant? It means even a little shit like you’ll get yer dick sucked by an unlucky whore someday. ‘Course, yer balls gotta drop first! Hee-hee!”

That’s not what it meant, but thinking back, he wasn’t entirely wrong.

My neighbor’s crotchety husband had an old parlor guitar that he attempted to spark my interest in. At the time, his attempts didn’t work for a variety of reasons, but now, in the cold, dark recesses of my adult life, I somewhat regret not letting him teach me to play a few chords.

Yesterday, above ground and in the light, I didn’t have this regret. Yesterday, I regretted not eating something a bit more rib-sticking than Kitty’s blueberry pancakes and a can of Coca-Cola, because I realize now how starved and unprepared I was for this.

Yesterday, when I stared into the eyes of a wild boar – hungry and ready to fight – I regretted descending a mountain and leaving the relative comfort of my warm slaughterhouse. And I never thought I’d say that.

The day before that, I regretted letting Garm sit on my lap in the truck because she puked all over me and the dashboard – a frothy pool of grass and dead rabbits. Another day passes, and another irritating regret gets logged away.

Today – or tonight, whichever this is – I’m regretting my inability to remember strings and chords, and that’s a new one for me. I want to know what’s embedded in my palms. Is it an A string? Maybe a D? I don’t know anything about music, but he does, and I think I might be too chickenshit to ask.

I’m used to regretting everything, from where I park my truck, to who I trust with my name, but that doesn’t make new regrets any easier to take.

I should’ve just nodded when that waitress asked if I wanted cream, rather than repeating, “I want it black,” over and over like a broken record until she called me an asshole and stormed away. Why am I such a damn freak?

I should have eaten more than just a cherry cough drop that day, because my mind was a foggy mess and I couldn’t get the taste of fake fruit out of my mouth when I stumbled over my vows. Why do I do this shit?

I should have cried less in the parking lot of the school every morning because, after a couple months, everyone in the lounge started calling me a pothead.

I regret taking that drive–

starting that job–

marrying that woman–

buying that truck–

stopping at that diner with the really shitty eggs …

My mind plays tricks on me, making me see and relive my regrets over and over. My brain makes me feel stupid, crying over illogical absurdities like a child. I don’t act or behave like a normal person, and I can’t stop that behavior because I don’t think I’m supposed to be normal.

I could have learned a song or two, but I was too busy wrapped up in my own imagination to realize that there was more to life than just the lives I’ve destroyed. There were others – people I actively touched without harming: my coworkers who relied on me, my students who hopefully wanted my advice, my wife who I could have made more of an effort to understand – but deep, at the center of that bloody web, there was another person I barely considered through all the pain and madness, and that person was unfortunately myself. My mother gave me value, and I actively and consciously chose to let it wither away.

I should have learned to play the guitar. Maybe that would have helped me be a better person, or have been useful to someone else in some way. I could have given myself a task to focus on when the lights upstairs dimmed and the house fell unexpectedly empty. I could have brought joy or relaxation to the anxious pedestrians with little ditties that might have reminded them of a simpler time before the world erupted in war. I could have helped an old veteran relive his youth when his hands couldn’t do it themselves. I wanted to welcome my child into my life with a lullaby – a soothing rhyme to help her sleep and better understand her old man – but I never got to welcome her at all, and I regret that more than anything.

Music doesn’t lie or coerce. It doesn’t pretend to be what it’s not. It simply allows our minds to conjure laughter, fear, our highest aspirations, or our lowliest memories without the use of words. Music is life changing, and if it had been treasured and allowed to flourish, it may have been my true calling. Maybe I'm so miserable because I don't have the benefit of music in my life.

They say misery loves company, but what do you do when you’re miserable and want to be alone? You fill your mind with the most misanthropic voices, and you end up both touch-starved and berated constantly: the best self-inflicted torture of both worlds. You feel sick and can’t stop it. You regret and doubt everything because you have no company keeping your misery in check.

But occasionally, in a moment of profound clarity between hating your inability to cope with tragedy and having just missed the bus you needed to get home, a bubble of understanding forms and floats just out of your reach. It’s clear and comforting and it hums a soft noise that calms your growing hatred of yourself.

You are taken by its iridescent beauty and perfect shape; _what a beautiful bubble,_ you think. You become enamored by that clear thought floating within it, and suddenly that tragedy you can’t cope with becomes nothing more than a comedic set-piece in your life, and that bus you just missed feels insignificant in the long run – you’ll get home eventually, even if it takes all night.

Anxiety melts away as that bubble hovers for a few seconds. Then you focus your energy and squint your eyes and finally hear the clear and precise thought tucked beneath its transparent skin. It says _I think I need someone to hold my hand through all this._

Then _pop!_ – that clarity of thought is gone. Anxiety and pain creep back in. Your blood returns to a boil, and you cross the dark street alone, but not alone; you’re still filled with your own miserable company, but your twitching hand feels so much more empty than before, and you have regret to thank for that.


	33. How the Land Lies

I’m frozen despite the muggy heat and still slumped at the base of a tree when she offers me her hand – a heavenly nymph poised just beyond the log.

“You certainly grew up,” she says. “You could barely grow a mustache back then and now you’re sporting a matching beard.” Her soft chuckle is captivating, but then her smile fades as she scans my body. “But I see you never did find your appetite.”

I manage to squeak out a noise – an obscenity or something like it – then my lungs empty in disbelief.

She knows a handshake or a hoist to my feet isn’t enough of a greeting for this unfounded reunion so she drops her hand, offering her open arms instead. I stumble to my feet, rushing to hug her like a long-lost child and let her warm halo of affection envelop me. I never thought I’d feel this again, let alone in here of all places: our private emerald thicket.

When I finally let her go, I step back. She looks identical to the last morning we spoke, right down to her long brown hair and the red and blue dress that she said made her look like a wacky giraffe.

She grins and my heart aches, and as much as I want to speak, I find my voice is as thick and heavy as the air around us.

I should know by now that she’s accustomed to my whims of silence. She’s always chosen to speak to me in spite of them. “I was absolutely positive you were going to turn into something stunning,” she says, “and I see I wasn’t wrong.”

“Stunning has many meanings,” I finally force out.

“And all of them appropriate.” Her eyes glass slightly as she smiles. “My God, what has become of you?”

“A lot’s happened,” I admit. “Not much of it good, I’m afraid, but I survived – as instructed.”

“Survival is only half the battle. More importantly: are you thriving?”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

She motions over her shoulder toward the path out of the woods. “Then take a walk with me. I think it’s about time we had a session.”

My instinctive though wavering desire to maintain any dignity forces me to wrench my torn shirt closed, but this woman has seen every inch of me at my most painful and exposed, so I give up my fruitless search for buttons, and we wander up the beaten trail, clearing it of debris as we walk.

“It’s funny,” she says, helping me toss sticks into the brush, “I can barely remember what I did last weekend, but the day you left the hospital? I can recall every single second of it. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more conflicted about a patient in my life.”

“You took a pretty big gamble that day. What you did could have ended your career right then.”

“I did not take a gamble,” she scoffs. “And even if I had, it would have been worth it to get you out.”

“I’m glad you saw any potential, honestly.” No one else had.

The other shrinks called me a waste of time, so you can imagine what they were saying about her. She was emotional but stern, and for some reason enamored with me. I was her pet project and no one cared what she did to me, since I was already considered a lost cause.

“You were my training wheels, did you know that? That’s what they called you anyway. After you left, they patted my back and said I was bound to make a few mistakes, but as long as you kept your nose clean, everything would be fine. And look.” She gestures towards the lush forest surrounding us. “I have to admit, your descriptions did not do this place justice – dense, green, a clear sky. I don’t hear any birds though …”

I had no intention of letting anyone in here. Its wild beauty is strictly the outcome of needing more and more places to hide. “It’s a mess at the moment,” I say, “A few sudden storms really did a number on it, and it’s definitely grown since we used it.”

“I hope that wasn’t out of necessity.”

“I just needed the private space.”

“Good! That’s a healthy way to cope with life. I’m glad you still find relief in here.”

I don’t find relief in here anymore. That train apparently sailed long ago.

“You were an endless supply of worry for me,” she continues. “Fascination as well, but a lot of worry. I was never quite sure I was getting through to you.”

She was, in her own way. And I was well aware of her concerns surrounding my release, but I couldn’t share her sentiments. “Well, I was more than ready to leave.”

She chuckles and hooks my arm as we walk. “For me, it was like being forced to shoo a cold, hungry puppy off my doorstep. You seemed so helpless.”

“Thanks?”

She laughs and groans, “I don’t mean to make it sound like you were incapable of living on your own, just that you were still healing. Then to not know what happened to you after you left … it was heartbreaking.”

“Well, it was made clear to me that I had to grow up. It was time to move on – get over it. Doctor’s orders, remember?”

She stops, releasing my arm, and rubs her neck, but I make no apologies. Whether she wants to see it that way or not, it’s still the truth. My options were limited, but I’ll be the first to admit that she gave me the best opportunity to make it on my own. I just had to keep my head down and follow instructions, which I did – and to a lesser extent, am still doing. But in the end, it meant I couldn’t say a word – not a whisper – about what had happened, lest I dredge it all up from the depths. I couldn’t trust myself to be alone or in silence, fearful of the voices, so I lived and ate with the television blaring and the windows wide open. And lastly, it meant I sure as hell wasn’t going to visit her after I’d stepped off the hospital property. That would have been truly an act of lunacy.

I wait for a moment, the rain working its way through our hair and down our shoulders, and she returns to my arm, suddenly somber or with a new resolve, and we continue.

“I knew you were lying to me,” she says, and I wish I was shocked by that revelation. “At first it didn’t bother me. Who cares if a patient wanted to pretend that their lunch was steak and baked potatoes? I knew the food was awful and you were just trying to make it through the day. And you lied about sleeping at night, but that was just to appease me. And then lying about seeing Dixie when I told you not to; I get it. She was beautiful and vulnerable, and just as lonely as you were.”

No surprises there. I was still mastering the art of deception.

“If you knew I was lying, why didn’t you call me on it?”

“I guess it seemed harmless enough at first.”

At first? “I guess it stopped being harmless at some point.”

She sighs and tightens her grip on my arm. “You lied about how well you were doing emotionally, about how the children were gone, and how the nightmares had stopped. You started giving me such fastidious answers, reading from a script in your head; you knew exactly what they wanted to hear. By the end, you were just too deferential; you had one shot to be paroled, so you put on your best facade for the board.”

I remember standing alone, under the unwavering scrutiny of a half-dozen grey-skinned men sipping piss-water coffee and rubbing their noses at me. They were the only obstacle left between my barren windowless chamber, and the bright blue Baltimore sky.

_No, sir._

_Yes, sir._

_I’ve had no hallucinations at all, sir – not a one. I understand now that what I have seen and heard in the past were the delusions of a man stricken mad by guilt and grief._

_No, sir, I am not a madman._

_No, sir, I am not crazy. I’ve finished my treatment and have been a non-violent patient for ten months._

_Yes, sir, I have. I have learned that I cannot and should not trust my eyes and ears. They have deceived me in the past, but I am learning to handle that deception with ease._

_Yes, sir, I do. I would like to say that my doctor, this board, and the administrator at this fine hospital have given me the tools needed to understand that I am in control of my life, and that I don’t need to lash out with anger or fear when I am confused or upset. I can remain calm. I will remain calm, and society has nothing to fear from me._

_I have been given a new perspective and with your approval, a new opportunity to grow. With your help, I have come to the conclusion that as a young man, I should be taking responsibility for myself and not relying on this institution to help me through the tougher parts of life._

_I’m looking forward to joining the workforce, starting a family, and becoming a normal, contributing member of society._

“What I said must not have been that alarming since you, Spring Grove, and the state of Maryland declared me cured of my demons.”

“If I had brought your lying to anyone’s attention, you would have been diagnosed as psychotic and put back on your medication. You didn’t want that – I didn’t want that – it didn’t need to happen. You were a model patient after we took you off the meds: you helped others, you never started fights, you complied. You felt genuine remorse for that family, and I could sympathize with that. You weren’t going to hurt anybody, and I wasn’t going to stand aside and let you be treated for something that you simply didn’t suffer from.”

My gaze falls to the ground and I watch my boots kick stones and twigs off the path. When I glance up again, I can see my target just beyond the trees – open, cool blue air.

“In your professional opinion, doctor, what did I suffer from?”

“Probably the same thing you suffer from now.”

“Paranoia? Derangement? Fleas?”

She laughs under her breath, then thinks for a moment. “I’d call it extreme humanity. But you are looking sort of mangy.”

I snicker, and when we step through the trees, the rain picks up without the canopy sheltering us.

“Can I ask you a question?” I ask.

“Always.”

“Did you set up a picnic by the stream?”

Her head cocks. “I never made it to the stream.”

I nod as I watch her eyes drift away from mine to scan the vast, rolling hills that spread all the way to the blue mountain range far off in the distance. They stop at the fence.

“Where does it lead?” she asks.

I have no idea. I’ve never followed it. “South, I guess. Over the hills and far away.”

“Want to go exploring with me?”

Now? That prospect should be far more terrifying than her smile would let on, but in all honesty, I don’t want to leave her side, so I nod and we follow the fence down a hill, through the light rain, and into an overgrown alfalfa field.

“Why did you come here?” I ask.

She turns to me, water dripping from her chin and beading on her eyelashes, and yet she still grins. “This is a very beautiful place – serene and undisturbed. It’s comforting here, and I’m glad to know that our exercises allowed you to keep it alive.”

“It should be comforting for me, not you,” I say. “You’ve never come here before. It’s sort of making me nervous.”

“I can see that you’re still very averse to going with the flow,” she chuckles. “I’d have assumed that life would’ve beaten that out of you by now.”

“Life is trying – very hard, in fact.”

“And is it winning?”

“A little more each day.”


	34. Moonstruck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thirty-four chapters posted in a year. Happy anniversary darkened void. Another year is in the wind, so it goes.

There was a moment before I blacked out when I felt a little like James Bond having turned a hitman’s hidden garrotte against him. I felt debonaire, like I was a quick-thinking, clever outlaw who was quite capable of turning the tables on whoever might come knocking at my door. 

The feeling didn’t last though, since technically I was the one who came knocking; and as the wire tore just as much of my skin as his, I started to sympathize with Bond’s would-be assassin. A piano wire to the throat is not a particularly pleasant way to go.

As the gut grew taught and my fingers numbed, I remember noting how painful something so delicate could be. The wire was thin, easy enough to uncoil and wrap around my wrists, so I imagined it as nothing more than a high E on a guitar – a quaint, plucky high note with a pleasant ding when strummed.

The Music Man probably never played a guitar, opting for more symphonic instruments instead. Perhaps that's something both hitman and target had in common: neither of us could pick up a Gibson and pluck out Stairway to Heaven.

Of course, the stiff cord still wrapped around my hands isn’t simply a makeshift weapon. It isn’t a faceless, nameless, worthless coil of steel. At one time, it was a well-educated patron-of-the-arts – a person who, without prompting or motivation, granted me the leverage to choke and nearly behead their killer. I didn’t have a plan of attack until that being brushed my fingertips, and now I’m left wondering: what was his true function in death? If this was his life’s intended purpose, was I worth it?

Probably not to him.

I can’t see anything, but I can smell him: a spicy musk that offsets the nose-burning tin of turpentine that was upended while we waltzed. Though I’m pinned behind him, I still hear his raspy breaths and charged insults; and despite the silence, crunching glass echoes inside my head like the bastard’s still dancing in the dark.

I don’t know how long I’ve been laying here. If pushed, I could probably muster the strength to stand and walk, but what stops me, and indeed terrifies me, is what waits for me above ground. Will I be savagely welcomed by the pacing bull, ready to beat the shit out of me for breaking every damn one of his rules? Or will I step into an empty, abandoned house?

That bubble of clarity hovers in front of me again, and this time it says: _Please, dear God, I’d rather take the beating._

Then _pop!_

I work the catgut out of my palms and push the body off me, a gush of blood prickling through my paralyzed hands. It hurts, but it’s nice to feel the throb of life somewhere other than the back of my aching skull.

I scramble up and lean against the cold wall, following it until I hit a shelf. I abandon the wall and after a few more steps into the darkness and I kick the bottom step. I’m not wearing shoes – I remember that now; I was hiding my footsteps then, too.

Finally having kicked something familiar, the map of the workshop reconstructs itself in my head. The workbench I dove under should be tipped on its back, directly in front of the stairs. My boots, if they haven’t been kicked across the room, are probably to my right, somewhere near the wall. With glass everywhere, it would be in my best interest to find them before I do anything else, but I crawl up the stairs instead and bring a blinding light to the carnage.  

A china cabinet lies in pieces near the back of the workshop, covering the floor in broken musical artifacts and bloody glass. If he were alive to see this mess, I can’t imagine The Maestro not shredding me alive for what I’ve done to his prestigious workspace.

I could forget my boots and go look for Janus now, but I don’t think I’m ready to open that door just yet. My heart’s trying to find a rhythm that won’t kill me, and I don’t have the keys to the padlock anyway.

I descend the stairs, my feet taking slow, deliberate steps, then I stand at the bottom until my ears and eyes adjust.

It looks like a tornado blew through, and not just because of the scattered tools and twisted corpses thrown around. There are wooden boards haphazardly dangling from the ceiling, tipped shelves once decorated with unfinished violin bodies, and a half-filled utility sink stained gold and brown.

He was an artisan, a composer, a musician, and I didn’t learn his name.

That realization hits me like the concrete on my first trip down.

His name had probably been printed in thousands of programs – wrinkled and folded, but saved in jewelry boxes after an anniversary night out at the opera. He was, I know for certain, _life changing,_ as Boat Shoe called him.

I didn’t know the shadow’s name … or String Man’s. I just have a plethora of nicknames filling a stack of empty cards in my head, and it’s getting a little disorganized in there.

It’s too quiet upstairs and down, and when I realize how alone I am, I detect a faint tapping – a metronome, a leaky faucet, or someone flicking playing cards.

My eyes are drawn to the corners of the room and then the sink, searching for water. Under the sink in a pool of spilled stain lie my glasses, cracked, but otherwise still intact. I don’t remember losing them in the fight, and even though I’m looking right at them, I reach up to push the missing frames up my nose, smearing blood across my face instead.

The tapping isn’t resonating from the sink but from the pool of blood forming under my right hand as I stand here, probably _in_ shock – or at least _shocked_ at what I’ve done.

But that’s good.

A man _should_ be shocked.

A man _should_ be confused and disoriented after killing someone. They should feel that tug of regret mingling with the pang of guilt and the remnants of fear still coursing through their body.

A better man would probably call the cops. A better man would have at least checked the pulse of the person they just killed – what if he’s still alive enough to be saved, or in some cruel or unusual state of pain?

A better man would see the fingerprints of his victim still visible on the handle of a paintbrush by the sink and realized that a moment ago there was a unique human being walking this earth, and now there isn’t.

A better man would see the awards lining the walls – the certificates of appreciation and gratitude hanging over the lathe, and think: what have I taken that wasn’t mine to take?

As we are all well aware, being better doesn’t make you right. I’m not a better man – I never have been – and I have taken something of great importance beyond a reckless human life. I’ve taken some poor man or poor woman’s life-changing regret.

Some unlucky person would have lamented knocking on his door in two, three, or four weeks. They would have regretted taking their seat and trusting that man with the brilliant smile and the callused fingertips. They would have regretted grinning and nodding and staying after the show even though their guts were telling them something was very, very wrong.

Fighting and fleeing are the choices men make when terrified. Pausing and appeasing are what women do: _stay calm, diffuse, keep cool and maybe it won’t escalate._ If that person was a woman, she would have regretted that pause – that smile – that appeasement until her last gut-wrenching second alive. _Maybe he’s just friendly,_ she’d think. _Maybe he really does like my name – my voice – my star-flecked eyes._ But he doesn’t, and she would’ve soon found out that you can’t pacify all of God’s malevolent children.

What I’ve taken is the regret and grief of her friends and family who would have worried themselves sick over what could’ve been.

What if they’d called before she left that evening? Maybe they could have joined her.

What if they’d visited her or picked her up after work? They could’ve gone dancing.

What if they had never taken that goddamn job in Idaho? They got laid off anyway.

How many lives in the coming years would have been changed in unfathomable ways if The Music Man wasn’t just a pile of meat in the corner now?

I’m already broken, weighed down by my own burdens, so what’s a little more straw on my back? What’s a little regret among fellow victims of circumstance?

Pondering these things does little at the moment. Whether justified or not, I have to get out of this hole in the ground, so I grab my boots, lace them up, and tiptoe through the glass to the dark, empty corner of the workshop where The Music Man lies on his belly, his face smashed against the whitewashed wall.

My thick, gravelly voice rolls through the workshop like thunder. “Are you dead?”

He doesn’t move.

“If you’re dead, just say so.”

What am I doing? Of course he’s not talking. He’s probably mad at me.

“I won’t hurt you if you want to say something …” Is he listening? “What I mean, is that won’t make it worse for you if you speak.”

I don’t know him well enough to confirm this, but I can hear him calling me a spineless pansy. He’s not happy about being dead, but really, whose fault is that? I wouldn’t have come here if he’d been a little more of a decent human being.

“Do you have any last words?”

What were his last words? He was talking nonsense to me. He called me a little bird. Why am I trying to give this creature dignity?

“I’m going to need your keys. The bull’s waiting for me.”

“Not likely, fledgling,” he hisses. “And you can have my keys when you pry them from my cold, dead hands.”

“It would be easier if you just tossed them to me.”

“If you want them, come and get them.”

Of course he’s uncooperative. That seems very characteristic from what I know of him. “You don’t have to make this harder–”

“And yet, I plan to; you’re being duped, little bird. You should never have come here. You’re a crow being groomed to stay perched on the bull’s back. One day you’ll finally give up the ghost. You’ll try desperately to fly away, but surprise! Your feet will be tangled in knots – good luck then.”

“Just give me the goddamn keys.”

“You haven’t been as moved by what you’ve done, have you? You should be reeling right now, and you’re frozen stiff. You can’t even unlock your unguarded prison cell with the keys three feet from your hand. I’m trying to decide if I should congratulate you on your assumed presence of mind right now, or pity your blossoming insanity.”

I don’t have time for this. “Keys. Now!”

He doesn’t budge, so I kick his foot. _“Keys!”_

Nothing.

I crouch and twist his waist, rifling through his pockets until I find the keyring and yank so hard I’m thrown back on my ass.

“You’re still graceless as ever,” he laughs.

I may be graceless, but at least I’m the one still breathing.

“Continue telling yourself that, little bird, if it makes you feel any better.”

“Piss off.”

I have the damn keys now, I control the locks. _Piss off,_ he echoes. Maybe I should.

The air of this crypt is stifling, and the longer I sit here the more time he has to harass me.

I turn from the carnage, but despite my need to flee, take my time climbing the steps. For all I know, a squad of pigs is waiting for me at the top, and I’d rather not be drugged and jacketed again.

What felt like twenty minutes down here could have been an hour, two hours, twenty-four hours. I have no windows or clocks, just that sick, gray-green feeling of impending doom floating over my head.

It takes three tries with the same key to finally settle it into the lock. I twist, and as the handle clicks, the door rushes open, something grabs my shirt, and I’m thrown across the dark kitchen.

I smack the floor, sliding into a cupboard that splits with a loud _crack!_ He’s on top of me, clutching my sweaty shirt when he stops and lowers me back to the ground.

“You don’t look too bad,” he says, and I can hear the unfathomable surprise in his goddamn voice.

“Talk about _ye of little fucking faith.”_

“I had faith, but you’re right. Apparently, it was very little.”

He releases my shirt and brushes his hand against my neck and damp shoulders.

“I heard the door close,” I sigh, “I thought you left – _we_ thought you left.”

“I did leave, twice. I had to look around and thought maybe there was a–” He jumps up and rushes to the basement doorway, catapulting into the abyss before I can stop him.

“There’s no _we!”_ I shout after him, but he’s not listening. “No _we,_ Janus! There was, but I guess, not anymore …”

He’s long gone. He has his own agenda now. I’m not dead or dying, therefore I’m just an afterthought.

It’s hot and damp in the kitchen – a sweet, starchy cloud all around me. I smell cinnamon through the paint thinner; it’s unnerving. I lean back, sweat dripping down my temples, as I try to figure out what Jan’s been doing up here. The lights are low, the shades drawn, and the counters are covered in containers and boxes, canisters of flour, and towels. Surly he was pacing up here. He was on the lookout for cops and prying eyes, not digging through the fridge.

Behind me, the cupboard door softly creaks, then _snap!_ – it hits the floor. I plunge back, cracking my head on a pile of pots and pans.

I don’t move. This is fine. I have nowhere to go anyway.

I am suave and cunning.

I am confident and refined. I am James Bond shoved inside a musty cupboard. But in the end, he didn’t leave, and he didn't beat the shit out of me, so there’s something to be said for that.

* * *

“Tell me about you life,” she says, “about normalcy. Did you meet anyone special?”

We follow the fence, past meadowland covered in a summer’s worth of tall, drying grass while I try to decide just how far I should open up to her in this potentially unfriendly realm.

“I did meet someone,” I tell her. “But normalcy didn’t really go as planned.”

“You always struck me as great dad material – very patient and generous. Did you ever end up having any children?”

“It wasn’t in the cards. What about you? Any rugrats?”

She looks at the ground and slowly nods. “A little boy. Is this hard for you to talk about?”

“Why would this be hard for me to talk about?”

Her face relaxes and sorrow seeps into her eyes, but I don’t want her pity any more than I want her advice. “You always had a hard time discussing children.”

With good reason. “I’m not a bleeding heart, doc. I can separate myself from what happened; it has no effect on me anymore.”

“I find that very hard to believe.”

“You can find it however you want to. Doesn’t change a thing.”

Her fingertips graze the fence as we walk and she drops the subject, forcing undeserved mercy upon me regardless. “So you met someone. Makes me wonder what kind of person finally figured out the combination to your heart.”

“Well, if you must know, the two of us met under dire circumstances at a bowling alley. It was a typical youthful romance: nervous boy pretends to play pinball so he can stare at beautiful girl, girl notices and says hello, boy has no idea why girl says hello, and girl takes pity on boy by dragging him into the lady’s room. There was some heavy petting involved, a couple of bodily fluids, and probably more than a few desperate utterances of devotion on my part. But all in all, our relationship began a bit shaky, had a pretty rocky middle, and ended rather rough, just to stay consistent. The lock may have been picked, doc, but it was never opened, you can be sure of that.”

That sorrowful glance is back. “I’m sorry to hear that. Between classes and fishing, I was hoping you’d have found some happiness in there somewhere.”

“Not everyone gets to be the princes and princesses of fairy tales. Some of us have to be the devils, the witches, or the belligerent trolls under bridges. I’m afraid that’s just how life works.”

She looks uncomfortable, and her shoulders drop. “What about your father? Did he appreciate getting his flask back?”

She doesn’t care about my father. “He said I was stupid for driving all the way down there to give it to him. Said I should have just tossed it in the woods.”

“You always said he was a little brusque, so that’s not surprising. But I know his isolation always bothered you. It was probably unrealistic to think–”

“He isolated himself until the day he died, and there was nothing I could do about it. And I’m starting to feel a little anxious about you being here, doc; this feels a little off.”

“I’m sorry I’m making you so uncomfortable. You know that’s never been my intent.”

We stop. “What is your intent then? To prove a point? To prove me wrong? Crazy? Everyone and their goddamn brother has staked their claim of me. So what’s yours?”

She takes a long, deep breath and brushes her wet hair behind her ears, her old diplomatic, administrative self. “If your claws come out, I’m leaving. You know how this works. I will never deny you privacy if that’s what you need right now. I’m just here to talk to you. I’m not here to judge or criticize.”

I’m not sure I believe that, but I still don’t want her to leave. The last time we parted ways I was a ship being turned away from a well-lit port, heading straight into a storm. I had no compass, no crew, nothing but a crudely drawn map of an island teeming with restless Amazonians.

“I want you to know – and listen to me, now: _I’ve never forgotten you.”_ She runs her hand down my arm like she’s bestowing to me some remarkably generous gift. “You’ve been this mystery from my past like a puzzle box that I know is filled with my greatest accomplishment, but for some reason, I just can’t open it. And after all this time, I finally stumble upon you again, and you’re just as locked and tight-lipped as ever. What happened? What do you need to tell me?”

There is nothing to tell. I did what everyone expected of me. I moved on. Then that life decided to move on without me – _c’est la vie._

“I’m not dredging up my past for your entertainment.”

“Then tell me about your life right now – about teaching. You settled in well, considering everything, and I’ve been told that your students love you.”

“That chapter of my life ended. Thought I’d try my luck at solitude again.”

“Still punishing yourself?”

“I said solitude, not isolation.”

“And how’s that working I wonder?”

“It’s allowed my mind to wander a bit.”

She huffs under her breath. “I hope you aren’t getting lost.”

“Of course not … that would be absurd.”

We walk far beyond where I’ve roamed to a place where the rain has stopped. The fields give way to more crops, then cracked soil, then wild and drying corn stalks.

She hums as she thinks, and I can feel a question thickening the air around us before she even opens her mouth. “Why did _you_ come here?” she asks.

I could argue that her tone sounds accusatory, but it’s really more curious than anything.

We stop again and I look up. I don’t recall a time when the moon has appeared so low on the horizon. The bright blue sky is still lit up by the late afternoon sun and yet there floats the moon – a big eye focused right on my shameful face.

My chest feels like it’s being crushed by the weight of the world. “I needed to run away, and this was the first place I came to.”

“Didn’t make it very far then; that’s good. It’s good to stop and reflect sometimes, especially when life feels overwhelming.”

“I’m not reflecting, I’m hiding. I ran like a coward again.”

“It’s not cowardly to run. It’s called being cautious. It’s self-preserving. If that’s what you needed to do, then I’m glad you did it. What does concern me is the event that made you run. Can we talk about that?”

She’s drawing conclusions, I can see it in her eyes: the wrong conclusions diving around. She thinks I’m anxious about the stupid, meaningless pap of life: an overdue library book, a late electric bill, a mixed up order at a restaurant.

“I did something …,” I admit, “and I can’t decide if it was the wrong thing to do.”

She slowly nods and thinks as she tugs my shirt, urging me to follow her to the fence.

When she leans against it, I do the same, but if this leads to more questions, I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.

“Mistakes are a part of life. Regret or remorse are both normal reactions when situations don’t pan out as we expect.”

“Guilt is also a normal reaction.”

“Let’s not place blame on anyone for anything just yet. Why don’t you tell me what happened first.”

I don’t even know where to start. “I made a few bad decisions that led to a few more that led to worse and worse outcomes, and now I’ve dug a hole so deep, I can’t reach the top.”

“Sounds like you need a hand then.”

Maybe I do.

“Can you tell me when everything started to feel out of control?”

“I was eating some eggs …”

It sounds so stupid, it’s laughable, and she does, in fact, grin. I know why people call me crazy, and I know what that look on her face means, too; I get it a lot.

“I’m not blaming the eggs,” I say, “and really it goes way beyond that. I guess I can’t pinpoint when everything spiraled.”

“Let’s start at the eggs then. Anything happen right after the eggs?”

A cotton-tongued phantom called me twitchy and dropped a cigarette butt in my coffee. “I met someone.”

Her eyes widen as though she’s completely shocked that I’d willingly met and spoken to another human being.

“And it was that someone who made you feel out of control?” she asks.

Actually, yeah, he did. “Suddenly I was Jack, tumbling down a hill that had no base – ass over tin cups – and I have yet to hit the bottom.”

“Human relationships are complicated and often feel like that – sometimes they’re relieving to an injured soul, and other times they’re downright draining. Did your emotions sort of run away with you?”

Well, I was disgusted at first, then terrified, relieved, satisfied, disgusted, more terror, confusion, disgusted again … “Yeah. You could say that.”

“What happened after you met?”

Absolutely everything happened. The sky darkened and the world fell away like the backdrop of a play, exposing the ropes and pulleys of the universe. “We kept running into each other.”

“Synchronization tends to happen when we find someone we’re compatible with. Maybe it was meant to be.”

We didn’t synchronize; he was following me. “I don’t know about that.”

“Do you feel like yourself when you’re together? Or maybe someone else?”

Hell no I don’t feel like myself … How do I even know who I’m supposed to feel like? “What are you saying?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what you aren’t telling me,” she says with a cocked brow. “This _someone_ – good someone? Bad someone? Neutral? Romantic?”

“Other. Eggs led to an altercation, the altercation led to a little late-night project, and like I said, dominoes fell. But that situation is not why I’m here, at least not directly.”

“Then tell me why you are here.”

“I hurt someone again, badly.”

She nods and folds her hands over her lap before her warm gaze returns to my face. “Do you think you could make amends for hurting them? Maybe apologize? It’s always best to face your feelings and right your wrongdoings as soon as you can. We never want to let bad feelings fester, remember?”

“I’m fairly certain making amends would be moot. Burned bridges and all that.”

“But we burn bridges for many reasons. Perhaps this was for the best. Sometimes we can’t keep ourselves from crossing those bridges over and over, so we burn them as a way to protect ourselves. But I’m not sure I believe that a burned bridge is a lost cause. You just need to find the correct tools to rebuild it.”

“There is no rebuilding this. It was a permanent fix and probably necessary for the greater good.”

“The _greater_ good …,” she repeats and nods as she bites her lip. She always bit her lip and pretended not to be scribbling in her notebook when she was thinking long and hard about something I’d said.

“Okay, well, even if we can’t change what we’ve done,” she continues, “we can certainly learn from it. By understanding where our negative thoughts and actions lead us, we can create or find the tools needed to cope with them. When we have those tools, we can start learning to use them, and eventually enact positive change.”

She’s in doctor mode, asking questions and parroting her abnormal psychology textbooks. She hears, but she doesn’t always listen. And I’m not sure I was ever in that textbook.

I lean against the fence, staring out into the abandoned field of sun-baked corn stalks.

This is how I was supposed to cope with bad thoughts like the thought that told me to sift through a stack of names and go hunting. This was the tool she gave me to wish them away, and I’ve let it become dead or overgrown and only called upon when there’s no going back.

“Was the burned bridge necessary?” she asks me, “for your health – mental or physical?”

“What I did was necessary for me to walk away unscathed, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

“When the bridge was burned, were you angry?”

“Yes.”

“Was the other person angry, too?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Before we confront anyone when we’re upset, we need to remember that anger is not destructive, right?”

Memories from our long-winded talks flash through my mind. “Anger doesn’t hurt other people, rage does.”

“Did you attempt to de-escalate the situation before it got out of hand? Maybe try to walk away, try to understand that you are human and allowed to feel overwhelmed without reacting?”

I don’t know, maybe? No, I’m pretty sure I tried. “I did try to de-escalate it.” Somewhat.

“What were you arguing about?”

“Whether art and self-expression are more important than a human’s right to live.”

Her eyes narrow, and my gaze snaps back to that big, white moon just over the mountains. It’s such a nice looking moon, isn’t it? Full. Round. Simply breathtaking.


	35. The Turning Worm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect slow updates for a bit. I'm 100k words into a new AU which I'll be posting after it's completed. I know I haven't responded to a bunch of reader comments, but know that I will! I have lovingly read them all and I'm chomping at the bit to sit down and respond.
> 
> As always, I love every comment, so don't be shy. If you'd rather privately message me, here's my [Tumblr](https://joanielspeak.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/joanielspeak). You guys are never bothering me!
> 
> Thanks for staying patient, everyone.

There’s a musty flavor saturating the darkness: rat shit mixed with rotting carrots or grandpa’s foot powder stewed with dirty potatoes; whatever it is, it’s not the rousing hot coffee and flapjacks I would’ve preferred to wake up to after such a grisly night.

I’m in a black box, not a bed, sweat trickling down my sides while something gouges into my sore back.

I forget where I am, where I was, where I want to be, then something shifts, I drop an inch, and a pan clatters across the floor.

I’m in the cupboard.

I’m in the kitchen.

I’m in the Idaho I think … Idaho. Maybe it’s a potato in my back.

No.

No potatoes. Just a four-quart pan handle getting a little too cozy behind me.

Pots and lids slip and crash as I crawl out of the pile and back into The Maestro’s sweltering kitchen.

There’s something to be said for a hot, damp kitchen; they’re curiously welcoming no matter the place or time of day. To a grumbling belly there’s nothing sadder than a cold, spotless kitchen, and this one is neither.

The gas range flickers, illuminating a few bubbling pots on the stove, but most of the light is coming from the open basement door.

He’s down there, probably tutting and shaking his head as he assesses my handiwork ... but he _is_ down there, or at least someone is.

Has it been a minute since I came upstairs? A couple hours? Two months? Should I wait for him?

It’s entirely possible that this Idahoan domicile has been constructed inside my head. It’s entirely possible that Butcher is a figment of my wildly unpredictable imagination. It’s entirely possible that I’m talking aloud to myself right now, but then somewhere below me, a gruff throat clears.

He’s real.

I’m real.

There are no trees here, no quiet stream.

This is the reality I chose.

I strum the linoleum, listening to feet tap as he retraces our stroll around the basement.

Maybe we tangoed over the tools. Maybe we waltzed and spun and the sheer thrill of the dance tipped the desk on its back. Maybe we sung of politics or India. Maybe we wrote together – bloody words, beautiful music – a sentient sonnet that in the end, left one of us heartbroken.

I don’t claim to know how Butcher’s mind works. I don’t claim to know how my own mind works, but since I don’t want him assuming anything that I might find objectionable, I slink to the door and slither downstairs.

He’s standing in the middle of the workshop, hands on his hips, pushing the chisel with his toe as he surveys the damage.

“You scuffled,” he says over his shoulder.

That’s a rather insulting understatement.

“What exactly were you trying to accomplish, Hop?”

I was trying to not die or fall apart. “I was taunting him. He killed the lights. It was confusing.”

That placates him for a second, but then he turns his suspicious gaze to face me.

“Did you know master luthiers are almost non-existent. They’re dying faster than their apprentices can be trained. This is an active workshop, too. He created everything by hand.”

What an amazing bit of trivia. I was unaware that I was stomping on such a rare flower. Please, Janus, go on.

He casually strolls along the cupboards against the back wall, not a care in this world as he fingers the tools and curls of wood scattered across the counter. “The man was an artist,” he says.

How generous of him to share.

“He was artistic … but also a _pig,_ right?”

He peers through a magnifying glass at a being carved into the body of one of the few violins that hadn’t been smashed. “Arrogant swine, Hopper. You did very well.”

My teeth chatter so loudly at his comment that I have to let my mouth hang open to stop the embarrassment.

Why he’s so calm? I can barely keep my feel planted on the floor.

“You stopped trying to break down the door,” I finally say. “You told me we shouldn’t split up.”

“Marianne declared that you’d be fine, and I trusted her.”

Marianne?

The Maestro’s growling laugh rumbles from the corner, “He stopped pounding on the door because of a coin toss. He keeps you with his trifles, fledgling – you, pennies, and bits of red string.”

“You tossed the coin?”

Janus nods. “And here you are. A little bitched-up, but that’s not unusual. Unlike you, Marianne’s not a liar.”

His feet crunch over the glass, leaving piles of white dust in their wake.

I don’t know what I was expecting of him or myself, but it wasn’t this.

This is a mess.

This is a nightmare coming true.

This is the result of a million conscious decisions – a million little voices in my head – suddenly deciding that morality is a sinking ship and I’m just a rat scurrying up the flailing bodies of the crewmen about to go under.

“I– I think we should call the cops.”

More deep laughter erupts behind me. “My God, you’re a genius, little bird. No! A masterpiece! Not a trifle, but a priceless treasure. You should be mounted and hung immediately.”

Jan is staring at me like I’m blowing spit bubbles and having a seizure.

“And why would we do that, Hop?”

My face is burning. “Do what?”

“Call the cops.”

This has gone too far. “Because this has gone too far.”

The heat of Maestro’s rage burns the back of my skull. “Gone too far?” he seethes. “You couldn’t have come to that conclusion a bit sooner? The world wouldn’t have lost a master luthier and your hands would be far cleaner than they are now.”

“Hopper.”

What?

A knife drops into my hand, and when my sleeve is tugged, I’m led back to that cold, dark corner.

Janus is crouched by the body, rolling it over as he lifts up the shirt. “You kept the belly intact. I was betting on you gutting him.” His fingers trace the open gash across the neck and he turns to me. “You left the head on just like I asked. Good boy.”

Good boy?

“Let me see your hands,” he says.

I juggle the blade, eventually holding up my bloody palms, and he nods for some reason.

“Not too bad. Probably better than getting carved by a shadow.”

Probably.

“You said–” I can’t think. “You said you had plans for the body.” I blink and the room spins around me. I feel sick. “What did you mean by that, Butcher? _Plans for the body_ …”

His hand wipes my face, and I stumble back. Why is he touching me? When did he stand up?

“Hopper, you think you can watch me do this right now?”

Do what?

My shoulder tips back, and he grabs me.

“I’m going to open him up. You want to help me?”

No. I don’t th– “I don’t think I can.”

“I don’t think you can either. You did all the hard work, son; why don’t you go upstairs? Bathroom’s on the second floor. Wash out those cuts.”

I think I do want to leave. Right now. My shirt’s sticking to my back, and all I can taste is a metallic tang.

He takes the knife and nudges me toward the steps, so I lumber over and catch my breath at the bottom.

The ascent feels laborious, my aching knees protesting every arduous step. When I finally reach the top, that warm kitchen air penetrates my soaked clothing again.

This feels like an active workshop, too – a witch’s earthy cottage or a devil’s lair. Potions bubble and cauldrons steam. Parsley’s been gathered and left mid-chop, a curl of smoke twisting from a lit cigarette abandoned by the cutting board …

Two steps toward the living room, I land hard on my knees, and the cool linoleum is looking pretty damn good to my sweaty face.

This is too much.

Or maybe it wasn’t enough.

This doesn’t feel or look like justice or glory or whatever was expected to come from such a heinous act. This feels grotesque and surreal like I’m trudging through a bog of liquified woe.

My cheek smacks the cold floor, and I peer over the hardwood of the living room. It’s clean, dustless and smooth, but the couch and chairs look warped, shoved aimlessly from the center of the room. The kitchen floor presses against my body as I nod off, still staring across the bare stage where I would have sworn once laid a worn oriental rug.

* * *

I pretend to brush my hair out of my eyes, avoiding her coy smile in the process. She’s waiting for me to tear my eyes from that glorious moon and explain myself.

“Art versus life?” she finally wonders aloud and leans her judgemental elbow on the fence. “I hope you were on the _life_ side of that debate.”

She would hope that; it would say a lot about her if I’d sided with art.

My pause to think is a tad longer than she finds comfortable.

“I think life won the argument,” I have to admit, “but if I recall, it was a close match. And maybe art won a little too, or at least irony or artistic license …” Even now, I’m not completely clear about what happened or which side I _was_ on in the end.

Her suspicious grin is arresting again, and I’m not sure why. “You want to talk about it? Maybe work through it together? We could do a word associ–”

“No!”

I’m not getting caught in one of her debates about how all of my word associations are phallic objects and how _curious_ that it.

She nods, thankfully giving up, and grabs my arm, a gesture which always signified the end of whatever uncomfortable topic was at hand.

“Let’s change gears,” she says, “move away from _burned bridges_ and _art versus life._ I want to hear your Top Three.”

I swear under my breath, and she grips my arm even tighter as the breeze picks up.

If she wasn’t shoving erotic ink blots in my face or transcribing my knee-jerk reactions to overly sexualized words, she was forcing me to play this childish game which she cleverly named _Top Three._

Top Three began a conversation about gratitude. She’d initiate the game when I’d clam up or was unresponsive, having to be dragged out of bed by orderlies. I was supposed to share three things I was either happy to know existed, or happy to have done on any given day. It was to remind me that little things and small accomplishments were worth celebrating when I became confused or whenever my mere existence became all-consuming.

“I know you hate this,” she chuckles, and I grumble at the prospect of her actually pressing this topic. “But they don’t have to be huge, and remember, I’m not here to judge you.”

“You go first then.”

She nods again, peering into the open sky as she thinks. “I’m grateful for the moon because it gives us the tides, the changing seasons, and is beautiful to look at. Your turn.”

“The _moon,”_ I sneer. “You’re grateful for … _the moon?”_

She slaps my arm. “Are you going to play or not?”

“I’m just saying that’s a bullshit answer. _The moon.”_

Her fake laugh fools no one, so I carry on, “You don’t want to share anything either, so you copped out. If you want me to open up, at least share something personal like you’re happy to have such sway over crazy people’s lives, or you’re grateful to have your son to go home to every night, or hell, say you’re happy that we got to mess around a little before you had me declared sane so I wouldn’t end up ruining your life.”

Her laugh dwindles then dies as she shakes her head. “We did not _mess around,_ and I’ll leave right now if you bare your claws _or_ your teeth. Don’t start insulting me.”

Insulting her with the truth? Now I’m insulted. That wasn’t a lie; it was a gentle reminder of how far her pity has come since those dark and dismal days.

She crosses her arms, now apparently disgusted by my honesty. I guess my lies are more palatable to her.

“You aren’t the only person with demons,” she says.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to talk about demons with schizophrenics; gets them all riled up–”

“You aren’t schizophrenic.”

Oh, right. I’m an _extreme humanitarian_ or something like that … but hold on a second. “Am _I_ one of your demons, doc? Are you allowed to work with psychos when you’re battling the darker forces yourself? Or maybe demons are a requirement so you doctors know exactly what you’ve signed up for–”

“Since the moment I met you,” she snaps, “I’ve done everything in my power as a doctor to save you from yourself. I don’t think my personal decisions made _after working hours_ deserve to be criticized by the likes of you.”

She doesn’t deserve to be criticized.

She was just doing her doctorly duties.

How dare _the likes of me_ call her judgment or her unorthodox therapeutic techniques into question.

I hum for a second, biding time as I watch her jaw clench and release.

We both know we have tempers to contend with. While mine seems to be  a spark in a flour mill, hers takes a little time to catch. She’s good at stifling her anger like most women, born and bred to watch her mouth lest it be smacked, but when a non-threatening stick like me gets to poking around, her temper flares.

When she finally dismisses my attitude as nothing but the scorn of a frustrated fox, I get out my proverbial stick and point to the sky. “I think I finally understand why you’re so grateful for the moon, little lady. You’ve got a thing for crazies, psychos, _lunatics._ You’re moonstruck, doc, and I was your heavenly body.”

_Poof …_

A wisp of mist curls up and away from my incessant badgering, and I’m suddenly alone, standing at the edge of a golden field, the last place I really want to be.

She said she’d leave if I kept it up and had always been a woman of her word. It was the only punishment she could dangle over my head, the only torture she ever used to crack me open: sudden and forced solitary confinement. If you isolate a sane man and make him question his reality, the first thing he’ll do is name the voices who inevitably pop into his head. _John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,_ you say? That’s my name, too!

I know she’s right about me; she’s always been right about me. I am a bitter man: lonely, stubborn, impenetrable, and yet I leak like a sieve.

It’s come to my attention over the last decade or so, that I have no one to blame for my ineptitude but myself. Sometimes I do blame myself, other times that curse falls on everyone around me. I am self-aware, don’t get me wrong. I’m a bird, nesting among yarn, pecking at my own reflection, preening my molting feathers, and well aware of the cage that twists around me. I’m well aware of the world on the other side too, and how I ended up inside.

I lean back against the fence and look out across the empty land.

Am I hiding in this nightmare, or is this just another self-indulgent dream?

I look up and catch the moon finally reaching its apex, the blood-red sun plunging over the ridge. For the first time in a good long while, I see the sky for what it is: the final expanse of unknowable and unspeakable truths.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think the sky was teasing me, coaxing me to stretch my wings for a bit. Can they really carry me over the hills and far away? If they aren’t capable of such a rigorous strain, I doubt I’d have time to worry. They’d probably melt under the glory of Apollo and finally send me back to my diabolical maker.

* * *

Before I open my eyes, I get a whiff of yeast and sour milk and I briefly miss the dusty, cinnamon smell of what was probably an hour ago.

That smell felt like my neighbor’s pantry.

This smell is from the puddle of vomit that’s still leaking from my cheek.

I’ve not been shoved in a cupboard this time. I’ve been laid out on the hard kitchen floor. The house is still dim except for a small table lamp casting its light over all those memories from yesterday: the violin bow dropped by the fireplace, that erect little man feeling a bit sheepish now, and the shadowy corner by the front door which seems more unoccupied than I remember leaving it.

The mouse who was actually a rat appears to be missing. Maybe he’s hiding, maybe he’s tucked in the fridge, or maybe I don’t recall what actually happened and the rat scurried back into his hole in the wall.

I roll my sweaty head, pressing my ear to the floor. Heavy metal feet scrape and bellow in the workshop. He’s mumbling or singing to himself. Cupboard doors open and slam. Wooden chests are being dragged around while he works, and I think he’s whistling Steamboat Bill.

I’m suddenly imagining a very cheerful, very brass-buttoned Janus at the helm of a barge floating down the lazy Mississip – a deck and crew of the damned.

When the screeching stops and the whistling slows, I assume he’s getting down to business, and the Lord knows I don’t want to hear that.

The room’s not spinning anymore, so I roll over and crawl to the steps to see about finding the bathroom. The rent-a-cop is indeed gone – not even his orange scarf or a puddle of drool has been left on the carpet-less floor.

I push aside those racing questions and clamber up the steps. A long, dark hallway greets me. The bathroom is still essentially my goal, but when I shove in the first door and paw at the light switch, I stop and reassess how urgently I need to clean up.

A bedroom’s been converted to a very elegant office, complete with built-in bookshelves lined up like a library. There’s even a decanter on a round table in the corner that looks mighty tempting at the moment.

The room looks suspiciously like it might be called _the study,_ and I wonder if there isn’t a revolver and a rope inside one of the drawers of the desk that’s dominating the center of the room.

Adjacent to the decanter sits a harp – the strings of which I refuse to take a closer look at – and next to it stands a lit glass curio cabinet filled with antique violins. How can someone possibly afford all these instruments? You could outfit an entire symphony with this collection.

I help myself to a glass of brandy and peruse the bookshelves as I listen to the thumping and banging two floors down. The Music Man’s not jabbering at me now. I’ll have to thank Jan for beginning his dissection with the man’s impudent tongue.

Instead of objects and awards cluttering the shelves, the cases are filled with books of every age, type, and subject.

Ignoring the music texts – _Principles of Orchestration_ and _Structural Hearing –_ I could be looking at my own shelves, back when I actually had bookshelves and a home to keep them in.

Unsurprisingly, _Don Quixote_ lies on its side under several classics by Alexandre Dumas _,_ both covered by a collection of poetry by Langston Hughes. At the far end of the top shelf, I pull out _Brave New World_ and a water-stained copy of _Divine Comedy._ They both feel a bit out of place here and are much more my current lethargic speed.

I always tried to foist Huxley’s dystopian new world on my slack-jawed students. I delighted in their confusion over my enjoyment of it. What I probably enjoyed more than the novel, was the act of forcing them to think about the individualistic and industrialized future of man: lab coats, test tubes, a wide-reaching addiction to encapsulated happiness.

The administrators never appreciated my insistence on prying open young minds to drop in such chilling ideas, but when I explained that the only book on my syllabus that had even been written in this century was _Our Town,_ they eventually caved. There was a time when I cared about trivial matters like helping youths better grasp their society. The fight seemed worth it at the time, but now I painfully regret letting it bother me so much.

The big oak desk beckons me over, and I’d be happy to oblige, but the telephone taunts me as much as the rotary in Boulder did. There are no emergency numbers scrawled or carved into the handle of this telephone, but given a few minutes with the phone book, I could still rain fire on this hell house.

That life-altering decision is a tempting one, but instead of relaxing at the booby-trapped desk, I clutch my books and slide down the wall to sit under the shade-drawn window.

The copy of _Divine Comedy_ is old: the spine gilded and cracking. I always found _Inferno_ read like a troubled friend: familiar though often tragically dramatic – and this copy wears that familiarity and drama on its finger-stained beginning. _Purgatorio_ felt distant and forced, a less interesting journey; but _Paradiso_ I will never fully grasp. Heaven’s a tough concept to accept, being surrounded by such sin and immorality here on earth; you could feel that struggle in Dante’s words and _Paradiso_ never did garner the excitement that the bad boys down in hell did. Men are voyeuristic by nature. We can’t help it. It’s so much more fun to peek in on the punishments of the wicked than to be lectured by the morally righteous looking down on us.

Normally I wouldn’t be so blasphemous, but since this isn’t a frequent stop for bible-toting Gideons, I have to improvise. I kiss _Divine’s_ cover, inhaling her musty age, then cast her into the air. I wait for a moment, trapped in the silence of her gentle ascent, but I’m out like a light before she finds her way back home.

* * *

The pollen-flecked gust off the field rips the voice right out of my mouth. “What happened between us didn't mean anything to me!" But in reality, it meant everything at the time. A beautiful doctor’s sudden though temporary attraction to me had been the highlight of my young adult life.

"I'm not bitter, doc! I'm just an idiot!” Please come back.

The corn rustles as the breeze picks up, but she remains a wisp on the wind.

"I'll play, okay?! Just let me think."

Eating, washing my hair, brushing my teeth – those were the top three accomplishments that she begged to hear: proof that I both could and wanted to take care of myself if left to my own devices.

"I slept last night!” I yell to the sky. “Not in a real bed, but I did fall asleep! And I wasn't cold or sweaty … And I didn't have a nightmare either! You always said that was good news, remember? No nightmares meant my mind was healing!”

No reply.

“I ate this morning! Real food, too – blueberry pancakes and Coca-Cola! If you can believe it, I didn't eat by myself either, just like you told me. It's all about the little things, right doc? Sharing a meal. Talking. And I don’t drink alone anymore ..."

More corn rustles, and I'm lost, clinging to a mirage that's probably never coming back.

"I'm grateful for the sun, doc, the moon, too! The mountains, the sunset, the star-lit sky!"

She'd slap me if she was here, and I would graciously welcome it.

"Thick steaks and eggs Benedict," I mumble. "Fish … chips … oysters and vinegar; can I be grateful for them?"

Silence.

The fence is a million miles long, probably wrapping around this plane of existence several times before bending to the heavens like a piss-poor ladder.

"Big black dogs, doc. Without dogs, humans would never have survived the Stone Age.” Although I suppose, some might contest the idea that our survival as a species should be worthy of celebration at all. “Dogs watched over us. They hunted with us. They protected us – the four-legged sentinels of man."

Do I stay here? Do I wander farther down the hill? Maybe she's waiting for me at the stream, staring down at a breathing pile of maggots on a picnic blanket.

"I'm glad books exist, doc, you hearing this? Top Three. Books gave me something to read on all those cold, lonely nights when you didn't sneak into my cell to keep my pitiful ass warm.”

These answers are about as hollow as her moon, and she knows it.

"I could have died," I admit to the fields, the air, and the falling sun. "I could have died just now, but I didn't. I'm not dead, doctor, did you hear me!? I said I’m not dead! I’m still breathing!”

My back hits the fencepost, and I slide down to sit in the tall grass.

"It took you a long time to convince me what was real and what wasn’t. Dead things don't eat, you said. Dead people don't read or play or pretend. They’re just … dead.

“How many times did you tell me I was alive? A hundred? A thousand? You even made Dixie say it: _Hello, young man, it’s nice to see you still alive today._ I don’t think she knew why or what it meant.”

I’m not sure I knew what it meant ...

"I still have _Sirens,_ did you know that? I carry it everywhere. It reminds me of how far you went to convince me to keep breathing.” She went to the great moon of Saturn and back again.

I pause for a minute, letting the cool breeze take a little moisture out of my tattered and useless clothes.

"Someone else is doing that now, I guess – another doctor’s keeping air in my lungs. You have a thing for crazies, doc, and I have a thing for medical degrees – imagine that. They’re useful for unpredictable assholes like me …” I guess they make me feel safe.

“I don't know his name, though. I’m betting it something foreign … something bizarre – he’s bizarre – he’s beyond bizarre. For now, I’m just calling him Butcher."

“Butcher?"

"Jesus Christ!" I scramble to my feet.

She’s standing on the other side of the fence, arms still crossed. “Who’s Butcher?”


End file.
